


Prohibition Swing

by Aurum_Auri



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Bloodshed, Blowjobs, F/F, M/M, Mafia AU, Minor Mila Babicheva/Sara Crispino, Smuggling, Violence, bigbangonice2018, bootlegger au, cuckholding, slightly mafia au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 10:39:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13657302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurum_Auri/pseuds/Aurum_Auri
Summary: When bootlegger and speakeasy-owner Christophe Giacometti is arrested, it sets off a chain of events that draws everyone into an inescapable conflict. This, in turn, has an effect on the lives of everyone involved, no matter how small.





	1. Ain't No Rest for the Wicked

**Author's Note:**

> My submission for the Yuri!!! On Ice Big Bang on Ice! Don't forget to find me at aurum-auri.tumblr.com! 
> 
> A full playlist of the music for this fic can be found in my [Prohibition Swing Playlist](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oZ_prIugI0U&list=PL5JPqoOL06hPMKAFhQaTpX8mj-F2buTp2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the night, a man is arrested

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Ain't No Rest for the Wicked](https://youtu.be/Z4zHMtJv9W8) 
> 
>  
> 
> _There ain't no rest for the wicked, money don't grow on trees. I got bills to pay, I got mouths to feed, ain't nothing in this world for free._

There was a cool sound of sliding metal. Christophe Giacometti, soft spoken librarian by day and resident life of the party by night, was set to spend the rest of his days behind bars. He was led to a car in handcuffs, a smirk on his face. Behind him, officers were pouring bottles and barrels of liquor out onto the ground.

A boozy scent weighed down the night’s chilly breeze.

Christophe was an attractive man, Victor had to admit. A little flirtatious, with a boyish charm and a sophisticated grace even with his hands cuffed behind his back. His hair was artificially lightened on top, or darkened below, Victor wasn’t certain which. Well-groomed, well-dressed. If Victor had seen him on the street, he wouldn't have thought “bootlegger”. And yet here they were.

Otabek, their new rookie, was steely-eyed, almost bored looking as he led an employee of Giacometti’s to another of the cars. Victor forced a breezy smile across his face. They’d be processing all these men for days. The perils of raids, Victor supposed. Never a dull moment.

Victor waited a moment, and there was the pop and flash he’d had been anticipating. Morooka, one of Lilia’s reporters, would have this in tomorrow’s paper. It was not the first time Victor’s smiling mug had appeared on the front page.

Everything had gone off without a hitch. It had been a hush-hush project, not even mentioned to anyone inside until it was too late. Christophe was a known target, a major threat. His web of informants was vast. And yet Chris didn’t seem remotely concerned as he was seated in the car.

“Why so smug, Giacometti?” Leo asked. The man was young, but he was a great officer with a lot of potential. He’d been the most surprised by the raid, which was saying something. Victor himself hadn’t even known about it until Yakov pulled him aside an hour before.

Chris hummed. “I know something you don’t.”

Yakov seemed to hear the words from forty feet away and appeared beside him like a shot from a pistol, grabbing Chris by the collar. “What was that?” he growled.

Chris just smiled. “You know who I am. You know what I do. Let me put off my prison date a little while, enjoy all the amenities your holding cells have to offer, and I’ll consider _accidentally_ letting a little clue or two slip about what those Italian mafioso bastards are up to right now. I know you’ve been puzzling it over for months.”

Yakov narrowed his eyes, considering the offer. “What kind of clues are we talking?”

“How about one for free,” Chris said pleasantly. Victor leaned closer, listening. “Legend tells of a creature called a hydra. When you remove one head, two more eventually grow back. Just like a hydra, arresting me will not end the liquor-running in this town. The gaps will be filled elsewhere, and more will take my place,  unless you can take out the monster itself.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to tell us how to do that,” Yakov said through clenched teeth.

“Well I don’t know myself. But I can point you to a few more heads. Would that satisfy you? Who knows. Follow those heads, and you might one day find the body.” Chris fluttered his lashes, teasing and suggestive.

“Spit it out, and if it’s of any use at all, I can consider it,” Yakov barked. Otabek was staring, wide-eyed with shock. Everyone tried bargaining their way out. It was just part of the job. They did the crime, and they just couldn’t do the time. Tragic, really. But Yakov had never really _listened_ to them.

Then again, none of them were Christophe Giacometti, and none of them had info worth more than their weight in gold. Chris’s hazel eyes glittered like he’d been given a new toy.

“Well then. Here’s your tip. Somewhere in this town, there’s a troupe of performers hiding a very well-established and extremely secret speakeasy. However, good luck proving its existence. Raid it, and they’ll just go underground. There’s too many safety precautions and they’ve got ins everywhere. The Big Six, you know, the Head Honcho? He has them in his pocket, and after I’ve been busted, there’s definitely going to be more protection for what they’ve got left. They don’t like their racket being disturbed, and this has definitely shaken things up. They’ll be on high alert, and that’s the truth.”

Yakov looked begrudgingly intrigued.

Victor hummed, laying a hand on Christophe’s shoulder. “Well, then. That’s all very interesting, but which theater? There has to be a dozen or more in this town. And how does this lead us to the big guy on top?”

Chris just smiled. “Very true, Mr. Nikiforov. If I go to prison, you may never find out. Happy hunting!”


	2. Empires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our story begins with a man, a theater, and proposition...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  [Empires](https://youtu.be/oSA1nRnciUA)
> 
>  
> 
> _The battle goes around until we find a common ground_  
>  _What's the point in building empty empires now?_

“More than usual tonight,” Yuuri murmured, studying the mass of people moving past. He leaned against the wall beside his sister, their arms crossed into mirrors of one another. He could tell the newcomers by the double-takes.

Mari was never one for the stage, but she put on a show just leaning against the door. Between her and Mila, the pair scandalized the older crowd and kept the younger folks banging down the doors. The papers called it flapper fashion. To Yuuri, it seemed like a clever excuse for her to bleach her hair and quietly thrive in the counterculture.

Yuuri wasn’t complaining. He was fond of the androgynous look himself, flirting with masculine and feminine alike. It had come to him almost like a dream, this implacable idea, and it had come with a splitting headache and the stunning revelation that this might have been the reason hooch had been made illegal.

The discovery had made his dances better. It had made his shows more popular. Yuuri wanted more.

“The stage is set. Seung-Gil’s bringing them on any minute now,” he commented.

“I thought you were dancing tonight,” she said. There was something suspicious in her gaze. “What happened?”

Yuuri could feel his eye twitch. “Nothing-”

“Then why are they here?” Mari hissed, jabbing her thumb at the door. Yuuri’s blood ran cold as two more people pushed through into the open lobby area of the theater, bypassing the ticket stand run by their mother. They didn’t need tickets. The two wouldn’t be staying for the show.

They were twins, a man and woman pair. Michele Crispino wore a pinstriped suit and a hat, his suspenders peeking out under the poorly-tailored jacket. He was a handsome man with a glower souring his features. Beside him, his sister Sara, was a vision in a bottle blue dress cut close to the skin. Celestino’s ‘family’.

Yuuri swallowed back the urge to be sick. “Watch the door, Mari. I’ll be back soon.”

“You’re not going down there alone with them,” Mari said. Her hand rested deceptively lightly on the hidden latch. The set of her shoulders was hard. Music drifted through the room, jazzy and bright, as the band started to play. The brassy trumpet cut the air, a run of notes popping like tommy gun fire.

“Mila is already down there and so’s Phichit. And even if they weren’t, I could handle myself just fine,” Yuuri said icily. He turned, locking eyes with Michele and avoiding Sara’s smile for the sake of his own sanity. The brother was overprotective to a fault, and Yuuri wasn't a fan of encouraging anything he didn't need to. Michele hooked his thumbs in his pockets when he stopped. Yuuri shot Mari a pointed look.

She glared back, but opened the secret door in the wall. The wall panel cracked and swung open, leading to a stairway that led below the building. “Right this way,” Yuuri said, beckoning his guests.

Sara hummed softly along with the music. No other words were said. Business always waited until safety was assured. It was the only way to stay on the streets and out of prison.

The stairway led down, doubling back on itself to reveal a thick velvet curtain hanging over a doorway. Yuuri thumbed it aside. Sara’s heels clicked on the parquet.

For now, the room was nearly empty. It wouldn’t stay that way for long. The night was early, and the show had only just begun. Soon people would trickle down here in twos and threes, and they’d be presented with a sight worth life in prison.

The walls were red brick, the thick lines of mortar between scrubbed clean, and they were dressed in more heavy velvet curtains. Tables were scattered, left where they were dragged in previous nights. Last night, they’d been pushed away from one wall to make room for the band to play, space to dance and sing and drink.

Because this wasn’t just a secret lounge, a password-protected venue closely guarded by those who knew the truth. Along the left wall stretched a gleaming bar, a man standing behind it polishing a bottle of whiskey with a hand towel. At his back, floor to ceiling, stretched shelves of rum, wine, whiskey, gin, moonshine, and more. The bottles winked in the lamplight, the barrels squat and sturdy along the floor.

Perched on a barstool beside him, sipping from a small glass, sat a woman with brilliantly red hair. Both smiled pleasantly as the group approached, looking far more cheerful than Yuuri felt. Her eyes skated over Sara. Yuuri could almost feel the judgement bouncing between the two. Where Sara was classic, Mila was riding the cutting edge. The pair couldn't have been more different if they'd tried.

“Who invited the stuffed shirts?” Mila asked.

Yuuri winced. “Take a seat wherever you like,” he said, hoping to defuse some of the tension.

“I’d rather get right to business,” Michele fired back. He crossed his arms, trying out a tough-guy look Yuuri had seen on bigger, more brutish enforcers in the past. This one didn’t scare Yuuri the same, but the intent behind it was no different from before. Celestino didn’t need a brute to get his money from the Katsuki family.

“Fine by me,” Yuuri said cooly.

He leaned against the bar beside Mila. With her hair cropped short and her eyes glittering with a provocative kind of makeup, she looked stunning and more than a little dangerous, a combination of sharp beauty and soft charm like the sidecar she was drinking. Traces of the sugared rim shimmered on her lips.

By contrast, the doe eyes of Phichit Chulanont, resident speakeasy bartender and Yuuri’s best friend, made him look a bit younger, a little more innocent. It was only half true, and Yuuri knew better. His tongue was dangerously loose with a few drops of liquor, but he was clever, and he was made of fire and whiskey, grenadine and a splash of bright citrus.

Phichit slid a flute down the bar, the sides frosted with condensation. Gin, champagne, simple syrup. Just a twist of lemon. Yuuri took a sip and nodded. “So. What does Celestino want this time?”

“There’s another shipment coming up. Celestino needs this one on the double, and you’re the only ones available to pick it up and get it where it needs to go. Now that Giacometti’s out of the game, we need you picking up the slack,” Michele said.

Where Phichit managed to keep himself limited to a sharp breath, Mila slammed her glass down, tearing her gaze away from Sara to glare. The fires of hell itself lit her eyes. “What? That’s impossible,” she hissed.

“Impossible,” Yuuri agreed. “I’m not a bootlegger anymore.”

“You were,” Sara replied.

Yuuri narrowed his eyes at her. “The last one was an emergency.”

“Well,” Michele said. He leaned against the bar, a shadow of a gun sticking out of his waistband. Yuuri swallowed nervously. “Good thing this is an emergency, too.”

“You pulled off one of the biggest hauls of the year,” Sara agreed. She crossed her arms. “You can do this.”

“I almost got _caught_ ,” Yuuri corrected. Memories came to him, his sister clutching her broken arm, biting back hisses of pain as they snuck through the night. The stench of liquor and blood on their skin where broken bottles had slashed their hands. The feeling of failure knowing they hadn’t brought the whole haul across borders, of knowing they’d lost several cases to the police pursuing them. It was a night he wouldn't see repeated. 

“You didn’t, though,” Michele said. “And need I remind you what you owe us? What you owe Celestino?”

Yuuri swallowed, his throat tight. “Fine. It’ll be done.”

“You can’t say that, Yuuri,” Mila said. “We can barely handle what we got now, and that’s with the cops breathing down our necks. We can’t cover that idiot Giacometti getting arrested. We’ll end up in the slammer with him!”

“You’ll cover him if you want to keep the theater,” Michele said. “As long as Christophe is gone, your payments just went up. If you like living here, consider the idea.” He flicked a business card towards them, and Yuuri caught it, studying the front. “Talk to Jean Jacques. He’ll set you up.”

Sara watched him, silent, but not slow or simple. She smiled a little. “Don’t worry, Yuuri.” She sidestepped her brother, and his glower turned downright furious. “We all know Chris isn’t going to stay in prison for long. You’re the best we’ve got. Celestino trusts you.”

“And who are you?” Mila asked.

Sara smiled. “Sara Crispino, lovely to meet you.” She extended a hand, and Mila studied it for a moment before shaking.

“Mila Babicheva. Charmed.” She didn’t sound particularly charmed, but Yuuri would keep that to himself.

“Time’s running out,” Michele said. He postured unsubtly, wrapping a protective arm around his sister. “Take care of the shipment, or we take care of you.”

They turned and left, footfalls echoing dimly along the parquet. Sara’s heels felt deafening. As the pair walked up the stairs, Yuuri slowly turned to Phichit.

“We can’t do this. It’s going to be one thing to get the liquor across the borders. But getting this much is going to take all of us. That’s suspicious. It’s going to attract attention, and the cops are already on high alert. What are we going to do, Phichit?” Yuuri groaned.

“Maybe we can try and work something out?” Phichit said. “Celestino isn’t a monster, and he knows we’re of more use to him out of prison than in it.”

“Yeah, but you know him. In the end, money talks. And if we stop making payments…”

“Yuuri, no, you can’t be thinking like that,” Phichit said. He took Yuuri’s glass away with a glare, quickly refilling it. “You always get maudlin after the first drink. You’re not fun until three or four.”

“Maudlin? I’m being realistic, Phichit. Mom and Dad worked hard to get this place. Mari and I can’t just lose it like this.”

Phichit shook his head. Yuuri reclaimed his glass, knocking it all back and feeling the heady buzz hit him. Phichit made slow, thoughtful circles with his towel across the bar. It was spotless already. Phichit kept cleaning, fingers curled tighter than necessary.

Yuuri drummed his fingers as the band wound down above. Musicians traded off. For a few minutes, there was silence before a different tune picked up. There were footsteps down the stairs.

There was a soft rattling of ice as Phichit mixed up another cocktail, even amounts scotch and soda. “What’s the stuffed shirts doing up there?” Minami asked, a skip in his step as his boots hit the ground.

“Funny, Mila said that too,” Phichit said. Their resident trumpet player was a spot of vibrancy in the quiet of the bar, followed closely behind by their bassist. Phichit slid a highball across the counter, and Seung Gil ducked through the curtain after Minami. He eyed the glass and took a sip.

“You know I can’t have liquor on my breath when I’m playing,” Seung Gil said.

Phichit snickered, pecking a kiss on his cheek from across the bar. “If you don’t want it, then give it to Minami.” Minami looked hopeful, before Yuuri shook his head.

“Please, not tonight.” He rubbed his temples.

Minami cocked his head. “What’s wrong, Yuuri?”

“We gotta up it,” he said. “Giacometti got busted last night. Celestino wants us covering his shipment.”

“We can’t smuggle that much extra booze,” Seung Gil said. “Can’t be done.” The ice in his glass rattled.

“Can and will!” Minami clutched Yuuri’s arm, bright eyed and bushy-tailed, nearly vibrating with excitement. “We’ll think of something, I’m sure we will.”

“Mathematically, it doesn’t work out,” Seung Gil said through another sip. “Too many variables, too much suspicion. We’ll be hauled off to prison before the day is done.”

Phichit swore. “Nonsense. I’ll… I’ll try and talk to Celestino. He might listen to reason. Maybe give us more time. Maybe we can talk him down.”

“Not likely,” Yuuri murmured, raising his glass. “Let’s keep thinking, and keep drinking. It’s not the end of the world till collections come.”

* * *

“Buy a paper you moron!” Yuri Plisetsky shouted.

The roadside sidewalk was one of the busiest avenues in town, streaming with people bustling this way and that. Yuri stepped one foot onto the tied bundle of papers to keep the wind from catching the pages. He straightened the flat cap on his head and locked eyes with a man who was moving too slowly to avoid him.

“You, get a paper! Raids and scandal, read it here!” He thrust a paper toward the man who, despite being well over a head taller, stumbled back.

The man, weasel-looking and moustached, straightened his spectacles. He tapped his fingers along the hooked end of his cane. He hadn’t walked with a limp. “Raids you say? What did they hit?”

“Look, you bastard, I don’t report the news, I just sell it. You wanna know, you gotta buy the paper. Two cents.” He held out an expectant hand, grabby-hands gesturing and waiting for a pair of pennies to fall into it. The man fumbled for coinage in his pockets. “Come on, come on, I don’t have all day.”

“Harassing customers again, Yuri?” a voice asked. Yuri grinned over his shoulder. “What’s the latest news?”

The way Otabek wove through crowds always gave the appearance of parting seas, effortless and efficient. His neat blue coat and badge made him look sharp. The weaselly man paled. He shoved two pennies into Yuri’s hand and fled with a paper, clenching his walking stick a little tighter. It never fully touched the ground. “Oh for the love of... Hollow cane?” Yuri hissed, ready to chase the man down.

“Probably full of bathtub gin,” Otabek said with a shrug. He grabbed Yuri’s shoulder. “Not worth our time, Yuri.”

“He’s breaking the law,” Yuri growled. “That’s plenty worth your time.”

“Not today it isn’t. What’s on the headlines?” Otabek asked. He nudged the stack of papers, the one still resting on the ground, with the toe of his boot.

Yuri grumbled a bit. “Some bootlegger got arrested but no one is buying any papers. Speaking of, Morooka says your team did the bust. What have you got for me?”

Otabek smiled gently. “This isn’t going to end up in tomorrow’s issue will it?”

“I’m no reporter,” Yuri spat. “I can keep my mouth shut. I just want to know what I can expect when I’m on the force too.”

Otabek shrugged. “Fair enough. Chief Yakov is keeping Giacometti in a holding cell in the precinct. They want to see if they can get any more information out of him. Hard nut to crack, especially if someone so much as suggests moving him out of that cell. Taking him to prison doesn’t seem like an option until we can get something more helpful out of him.”

“He’s just going to break out,” Yuri growled.

“He’s going to try, but we have extra officers posted to make sure he doesn’t. And anyway, Giacometti is a talker, not a fighter. Can’t say I’d be wholly against something small happening though. I just spent all day running papers across the office. Some more action would be nice.”

“You and me both,” Yuri muttered. He crossed his arms, kicking his papers back toward the nearest building, getting them out of the main view of the street. Out of the way, there was a little more privacy and a span of wall to lean against. “First chance I get, I’m gonna be a cop. Not like my dad. Like you and Nikiforov. If I became police chief, I’d crack down on all the rotten corruption in this force.”

“Chief Yakov and Deputy Chief Nikiforov do the best they can. And Deputy Chief Nikiforov didn’t get where he is overnight,” Otabek said. “He worked hard to get there. You’ll have to beat him out to make Chief, and last I heard, he might just get it, especially if Chief Yakov keels over from a heart attack.”

“Yakov would never. That old cockroach is tough as nails.”

Otabek chuckled softly. “I forgot, Lilia must mention him occasionally.”

“Only with venom on her tongue,” Yuri replied. He cracked a grin.

“So how is your dad, anyway?” Otabek asked, and Yuri’s grin fell away.

He huffed. The scuffed toes of his shoes were suddenly fascinating. “You know, same as usual. Visited him a few days ago. He’s as much of an asshole as always. Grandpa says I should forget about him. But I just… I can’t, you know? I have to be better than him. I can’t make the same mistakes he did.”

Otabek clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Wow, better than both your dad and Nikiforov? Those are some big shoes to fill. I know you can do it, though.”

“You’d better believe it,” Yuri said. “Come on, there’s some scary movie film out at the Movie Palace.”

“Nosferatu?”

“Yeah,” Yuri said. “Lilia can be mad all she likes. People aren’t buying today anyway.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” Otabek said, raising his eyebrows seriously. “She terrifies me.”

“Me too,” Yuri said. “But she doesn’t have to know.” Yuri laughed and grabbed the papers. “Just a short break, then back to work. You’re buying, Mr. Rookie.”

“Sounds good to me,” Otabek said easily. He grabbed the other stack of papers.

The movie was as scary as promised, a horrifying telling of the creepy Count Orlok and his dark secret: he was a vampire.

“Forget Lilia, your Grandpa will kill me if he hears we saw this!” Otabek said, feigning horror when it was finished.

They were walking through emptier streets now, bundles of papers under each arm. Yuri let himself into a small house at the end of the way. It wasn’t much, but it was home. He dropped the papers at the door and kicked off his shoes.

“I’m home!” he yelled.

“Kitchen,” his grandpa replied. Otabek kicked off his shoes and followed Yuri into the kitchen. Yuri’s grandpa was elbows deep in flour and dough. “Good to see you, Otabek, my boy. How’s the family?”

“Great, sir, thanks. And you?”

“Excellent, excellent. The old back is acting up again, but that’s normal.” There was a mew and scratching from the door. “He’s been wanting to help,” Yuri’s grandpa said, laughing. “Doesn’t seem to realize paws don’t make good pirozhki.”

“I’ll get him,” Yuri said, smiling. He stepped through the door, catching Potya before he could sprint into the floury mess of the kitchen. The fluffy cat curled in his arms, purring like a Model T. Otabek followed him to his room, and they sat on the bed. “I'm going to be a cop one day,” he said.

“I don’t doubt it,” Otabek said seriously.

“Grandpa doesn’t think I should. But those drunks and rule breakers are going to pay. I’ll see them all put in prison. No one on the force is ever going to be corrupted like Dad.”

He was shaking with the force of his quiet fury. Otabek curled his fingers behind Potya’s ears, humming softly, quietly reassuring without words. “Can’t wait to see it,” Otabek said.

* * *

Victor ran a hand through his hair as they approached the doors. This was the twelfth theater they’d been to since Chris had dropped that hint. Thus far, there hadn’t been a single clue as to which one was hiding the illicit speakeasy.

“This’ll be the one, I know it,” Emil said, smiling. His hands were hooked in his suit pockets.

“You said that about the last six,” Victor replied. He rubbed his temples.

Emil chuckled. “Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying seeing all these shows on the department dime. We get to have fun, and enjoy all the eye candy we can eat.” He rubbed his hands eagerly.

They weren’t in uniform. Technically, they were full off duty, but this was undercover work all the same. Emil was only coming along because Chief Yakov wanted someone to make sure Victor didn’t work himself into an early grave.

A blond trumpet player was cutting loose in a corner. It wasn’t a flawless performance, but his sheer enthusiasm and energy caught eyes. Yu-topia. Not a bad first impression.

It wasn’t the nicest venue they’d visited, but it had a decent amount of character, and it was extremely popular among those who considered themselves _in the know._ The jazz music was infectious and the decor was attractive without being overbearing.

A few people callously sipped from hip flasks there in the lobby. Emil moved closer, but Victor clamped a hand on his wrist. Emil blinked. “Oh right, undercover,” he laughed. “Still, drinking in plain sight.” Emil shook his head, disgusted.

They purchased tickets easily enough, buying from a cheerful little Japanese woman who wished them a nice time.

Victor surveyed the lobby. Aside from the people flagrantly breaking the laws, drinking from hip flasks in plain sight, a few of the performers were speaking with the patrons. Victor could pick them out by their outfits, fit for the stage, as well as by the stunning, red silk roses tucked into their breast pockets. The woman who had given them their ticket had worn one as well. The uniform, perhaps.

The doors lining the back wall clearly led to the main theater, held open by a pair of boys to show the tables within and a hint of the stage. Leaning conspicuously against one wall was a tall flapper girl, her black hair bleached some time ago, long enough to reveal dark roots growing out and her silk rose pinned to her cap.

A door behind her cracked open, almost invisible where the seam met the wall. She moved away just enough for a man with a sullen expression to step through. He picked up the bass from beside the blond trumpeter and joined in midway through the song, counting out the rhythm with small bobs of his head.

Victor wound his way a little closer through the crowd, signaling Emil to follow, the pair of them trying to appear inconspicuous. He put on his friendliest, flirtiest smile as he neared the woman. “I’ve never seen a door like that! What’s back there, I wonder?” he said, just loud enough that hopefully he’d be overheard.

“It’s our backstage area,” the woman said. “Patrons aren’t allowed. Employees only.” The door cracked again, and the woman stepped aside, making room once more. Another man stepped from the ‘backstage area’, wearing the same rose as the others.  His head was tilted back, and he seemed to be speaking to someone down a flight of stairs, some sort of parting words.

The man emerged with a startled look, surprised to see Victor staring right at him. He was attractive, dark hair slicked back from his face and showing off a stunning resemblance to both the woman beside him and the one running the ticket stand. Family relations?

He wore a smoky grey vest over a starched white shirt, and it made him look long and narrow. The rose was the only hint of color on him, and it popped like a splash of blood over his breast. His wide eyes were the color of rum.

Victor blinked. Emil jerked his arm as subtly as he could, and Victor returned to the land of the living with his trademark smile. “Well now, hello, doll.”

The man smiled back without losing a beat. “Please enjoy the show.”

The man pushed past Victor and Emil. Victor’s eyes followed him, sliding up from the stunning pair of dancing shoes he was wearing right up to the downright sinful curve of his ass in a pair of black slacks.

“I think I just might,” Victor breathed, sucking in a sharp breath.

“Pardon you. Yuuri’s not a piece of meat for you to be ogling,” the woman said, leaning back against the wall.  

Victor blinked back to himself, shaking his head slightly. “I- I’m sorry, you’re right. I uh. I’ll just. Go watch the show now,” he said, feeling a little dazed.

Emil shot Victor a curious look. Victor dragged Emil along to a table in the seating area, watching the stage, the words ringing in his ears.

 _“Enjoy the show_ ,” he’d said.

Victor did.

Yuuri, the vision in black and white, the splash of red drawing the eye like a gunshot, held Victor’s attention rapt as he took the stage, striking beside the vibrant redhead behind the microphone. The band waited for a cue Victor couldn’t see.

A low trumpet sang out a run of a few notes, and that lithe body rolled. The music hit like a wave crashing into the shores. The red-head’s voice rasped low, singing clear and husky, and with that Yuuri danced.

It was a sort of religious experience, a fever that ripped through him and left Victor spellbound and speechless at the graceful twists and turns of his body through moves Victor could imagine only in his deepest, darkest fantasies. Yuuri was a beauty, yes, but his command of the stage made him something transcendent.

It felt like no time at all had passed before Emil was tugging his sleeve. “Deputy Chief? Hey? Nikiforov? Victor. Victor!” They were back in the lobby, and Victor was coming down from an ascended plane of existence. Sudden the venue’s disproportionate popularity made sense.

He blinked. “Emil, sorry, I-”

“A few people just went to the back,” Emil said.

Victor nodded, rubbing his eyes to bring some sense to himself. “Yeah, yeah, the performers are probably just-”

“Not performers,” Emil said. “No silk rose. They were patrons. They spoke to that girl, and she let them downstairs. Do you think this is the place?” They left the establishment, keeping to the edges of the sidewalk as they walked back to the precinct.

“It’s the most suspicious of them all,” Victor agreed. “Barred areas accessible only to a select few, secret doors, and the sheer number of people with liquor on their breath, it is just too suspicious. But everything we’ve got right now is circumstantial.”

“We need proof,” Emil agreed.

Victor nodded. “I’ll run it past Yakov. There’s another show tomorrow. If we get the proof we need, give Leo the address and have him get some men together. But we have to keep it quiet. They can’t catch wind of this, or we’re screwed. And have someone keep an eye on this place. If anyone other than the performers comes in or out at odd hours, if anyone’s carrying any boxes or suspicious bags, we need to know.”

“Yes, sir,” Emil said.

The next day was a quick scramble of preparations. It was only a stakeout, after all, nothing more elaborate than finding a clever excuse to be standing in front of the building near the end of the next evening. They only really needed warm bodies and open eyes. 

Yakov was not the sort of man to celebrate small victories. He saved triumph for where triumph was deserved. When they reported in, their work earned them little more than a nod as he told them to see it through. It was approval enough, and Victor picked a few men who were sick of walking the beat. 

And so they waited. People streamed in and out, the show starting and ending, and still they waited, looking for anything outwardly suspicious. And then they saw it. Their golden ticket, the mistake they’d been waiting for.

Times as they were, most people knew better than to keep certain things on their person. At least, things that were as obviously illegal as a bottle of hooch. Hip flasks, hidden in jackets and skirts, strapped to thighs, stashed inside walking sticks, had become the norm these days.

And then there was this simpleton, carrying nothing more than a paper bag with a curious shape.

Victor fell into step beside him. Georgi was down the road in case he ran, and Emil waited in an alley in case he tried anything funny.

“What have you got in the bag?” Victor asked gently, and the man jerked as though he’d been electrocuted. Tonight, Victor was in full officer regalia, sharp in his hat and uniform, the badge on his chest gleaming in the moonlight. The man bolted.

Victor gave chase, in hot pursuit as the man tossed the bag behind him. There was a sound of shattering glass. Georgi stepped in front of him, and the man ran right into the officer. Victor peeked into the bag, avoiding glass shards as best he could. The bag was soaked through, and Victor pulled back soggy paper to reveal the label.

“Book him,” Victor said, drawing the shard out of the mess. Dripping amber liquid and reeking of liquor, the Canadian Club Whiskey label would be all the proof he needed. The man’s confession would be the icing on the cake.

The sinking feeling weighed Victor’s heart like iron shackles.

Georgi clapped the man in irons. Emil rested a hand on Victor’s shoulder, shooting Victor a pitying look. “Tough luck. Looks like your cutie is a criminal.”

Victor hadn’t felt genuine disappointment like this in years. He sighed. “And here I was hoping to take him out,” he murmured, dreaming of seeing those moves again in a dance hall. Yuuri, it seemed, was an accomplice to the crime. And there was only one penalty for breaking the law.


	3. Party Raiser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are laid. Phichit reasons with Celestino in a way only he can. A theater is raided, and more than one person has a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
> [Party Raiser](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WObZbHQEO3I)  
>  **
> 
>  
> 
> _You will dance, you will sing, too. I'll bring you where the money is due due due. But keep the cover, let's call it a band, and in the bass put in the beers instead._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Phichit deserves all good things and as much dick as his heart desires.

“So let me get this straight,” Jean Jacques Leroy said. “Giacometti is out of the picture?”

“For the foreseeable future, yes,” Guang-Hong said. They were sitting in a foyer. It was extravagantly decorated. Clearly new wealth. The Leroys were liquor kings making it rich on the changing times. A fitting last name for a founding of a dynasty. “Karpisek insists Giacometti won’t be out long, they're working on something now. Still, until then, Celestino wants the shipments in the hands of the Katsukis. They’ll send representatives up here soon as they can, Jean.”

“Please, call me JJ,” the newly crowned king said, kicking up his heels in leisure.

Canadian Club Whiskey was his throne, and all of America was the seat of his power, so long as prohibition held its sway over the country.  

“And alright. I'll tell my boys to sign the shipment over to them, then.”

A beautiful woman, who had until then been sitting at a canvas listening with half an ear, took this opportunity to drape herself over JJ’s shoulders. “Why are you frowning?” she cooed. Guang-Hong glanced at the painting. It was a portrait of the pair dancing. Her style was distinct, but the talent was undeniable. “Something bothering you?”

A ring glittered on her finger.

“They better not lead this back to us,” JJ said. “Are they trustworthy, these Katsukis? Can they get the goods across the border without a problem?”

Guang-Hong simply smiled.“Yuuri might not look like much, but trust me, he’ll get the job done.”

* * *

The knock on the door startled her.

Mila looked up from her vanity, makeup half done beneath her brilliant red finger curls. She narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

Her hand trailed beneath her powder, pulling out a little browning pistol and tucking it in her waistband. She let her robe fall over it. No one knew where she lived. It was on a need to know basis, and most people didn't need to know.

The ones who did all knew the secret knock.

Mila crept toward the door. Another slight knock, and then patient waiting. She peered through the peephole.

A dark haired woman stood on her porch in what looked like an evening gown. Her makeup ran down her face. Mila thought she heard sobs.

“Oh for crying out loud,” Mila growled, wrenching the door open. Sara Crispino was on her porch. “What do you want?”

“I'm sorry,” she said, fiercely drying her eyes. She hiccuped. Mila could smell the liquor on her breath as the hiccups shook her body. “They said- hic- they said you didn't like to be disturbed- hic- but I thought, I thought, maybe you could help.”

Mila stepped aside. “At least get inside,” she said. “You're already here.” She looked both ways outside her porch before closing the door after her. A little healthy suspicion was always a good idea.

Sara shifted awkwardly in her towering heels. The hem of her pretty dress was stained with mud. The heels were caked. She almost offered the girl a drink, but Sara clearly didn't need it.

Mila pulled the browning out and set it aside, still in reach, but less uncomfortable when she took a seat. Sara seemed entirely unbothered by it. “Why me?” Mila asked. “What can I do that your network can't?”

“Free me,” Sara said. “I want to be a flapper like you. I want to be free. But my brother and my family won't listen to reason, and Mickey stops me every time I try to cut off my hair and burn these stupid dresses. That overprotective oaf needs someone in his bed to distract him or something, I swear-”

Mila stood up and poured herself a drink while Sara rambled on, because she was clearly going to need it. She threw back her head and drained the glass, then another. She looked back at Sara. The things she did for a pretty face.

“Alright,” she said, clearing her throat when Sara finally dissolved into soft weeping sobs, finished with her story. “I'll help. But let's get one thing straight. You don't have to cut your hair off. You don't have to burn your dresses. All you need to start,” Mila said, standing back up. She grinned. “Is the right accessories, and the right attitude.”

* * *

 

The precinct was uproariously busy today. This time, Leo understood. The last time this had happened, Giacometti’s quiet local library had been revealed to be den of sin and liquor. Another target was waiting to be hit, and it would be desperately important he kept his eyes open this time.

He took the distractions from the chaos to stand up from his desk, feigning the need to stretch and take a walk.

He wandered the halls, pushing past people to make for the coffee pot. When his mug was full, he wandered around the halls for a while, aimlessly picking his way around one end to the next, occasionally working limbs loose. He passed the holding cells, past the pair of men standing guard at either end of the room. They were sleepy, bored with their task of staring at walls all day.

Leo made eye contact with Chris through the bars of the cell.

Chris kicked a folded piece of paper. It slid across the floor, and Leo casually mimed losing his pen, stopping to pick it up. He pocketed the slip with a subtle slip of the hand. His lips twitched up at the corners, and Chris leaned back, smirking. Leo just kept walking.

* * *

 

The office was almost silent. Celestino leaned back further into his chair, spreading his legs wider apart. A small sigh escaped his lips. He combed his fingers through silky black hair.

“A little deeper,” he murmured, pulling the head down further onto his cock. “Yes, just like that. So good.”

The fingers on his thighs clenched tighter at the praise. The Chulanont boy grinned, gazing up between Celestino’s thighs with a mischievous look, before pulling back, leaving kitten licks along the length.

Phichit sucking him off was one of the highlights of this absolutely terrible week.

He was an eager boy, happy to please and be pleased in return. He had that in common with Giacometti. There was something to be said about those whose fondness for sex was more than just a blunt weapon to get what they wanted from their boss.

That eagerness would have made Celestino suspicious, if it wasn’t for Phichit’s outright openness and plain desires. The boy wanted cock and Celestino didn’t have the heart to deny those big eyes. Forgive an older gentleman his pleasures. Phichit sucked cock like a dream, swallowing it all down with a swipe of his tongue over his lips.

In the afterglow, Celestino sat back. He grabbed a box of cigars from the desk drawer, fumbled one out. He pulled a cigar cutter from the same drawer. End snipped, he took his time with it, toasting the end until it was a last lit with a strike of a match. He took a long, deep pull, head falling back as he breathed out.

A swirl of smoke left his lips.

“Ciao Ciao, we don’t really have to pick up all of Giacometti’s slack, now, do we?” Phichit hummed. He rested his cheek on Celestino’s thigh. He made a pretty picture there, young and vital, cock hard in his pants and tenting with need, but patiently waiting, so well behaved. Celestino’s own flaccid length was a scant few inches from his face. It was giving a valiant attempt at round two. But that would be a while, yet.

“Someone has to.”

“Surely there’s other places that can take a bit of that. Spread it out. Plus, word from the precinct says there’s a storm brewing tonight,” Phichit murmured.

Celestino ignored him. “The Crispino boy says he thinks one of your performers has been messing around with his sister. It’s not that gloomy bassist you’ve got there, is it?”

Phichit laughed. “No, the gloomy bassist is mine. Must be referring to our lovely Mila. She wouldn’t say where she was headed tonight. But now that I think about, she did mention something about getting to know ‘the more attractive of the Crispinos’ or something like that.”

Celestino laughed before taking a long pull of the cigar. Phichit coughed and waved away the smoke.

The boy couldn’t stand the smell, he claimed, but there was nothing like a cigar after the job was done. Sometimes one during. Celestino knew he was a bad, bad man. One didn’t get here by playing nice, or taking it easy. But it never hurt to enjoy the baser pleasures now and again.

He felt a warm, wet tongue lap across his slit. Fingers wrapped around the base of his cock. Celestino smiled. He held the cigar between two fingers, pulling it from his mouth. He held it out, and Phichit opened his own mouth, taking the end between his lips. He gave it a long, sensual drag, almost obscene in the way his lips wrapped around it. He pulled off and blew, the smoke curling up. He coughed.

Celestino chuckled and returned it to his mouth, letting Phichit get back to work on his soft cock. It was some time before he felt himself stirring again. Being older had its benefits, sure, but sometimes Celestino missed that youthful recovery period. He let Phichit take his cock deep into his throat, threatening his gag reflex more than once over the long period.

“Hmmmm. On the desk, I think,” he said. Phichit pulled off his cock with a soft pop of his lips. His cheeks were flushed, eyes dark, lips swollen. His jaw hung lax, as though it was sore.

“So old man, how do you want me?” he teased, already tugging down his waistband. Celestino loved how husky the boy sounded when he’d been deep throating him.

Celestino spun his finger around in a circle, smoke trickling off the end of the cigar. Phichit smiled. He pulled his slacks down his hips, revealing his tanned derriere. Delicately, he laid his stomach on the desk, legs splayed apart. His achingly hard cock was visible in the gap between his thighs, precum shimmering on the tip. He crossed his arms and tilted his head back.

“Did you make yourself ready for me?” Celestino asked. His hand slid along Phichit’s asscheek. He pulled the cheeks apart, seeing a shine of slick between them. He slid a finger inside. There was friction, but give. Phichit exhaled as it slid inside him. When the finger settled, Phichit hummed.

“Of course I did. I didn’t want to make you wait,” Phichit said. Celestino chuckled, pressing a second finger in beside the first. Tight, but not too much so. Celestino quickly worked Phichit back open, listening to the musical gasps and sighs as Phichit rocked back onto his fingers.

“You really are so good for me,” Celestino hummed. He held the end of the cigar between his teeth to free up a hand.

He grabbed his cock, resting it along the cleft of Phichit’s ass. It was spit-slick and ready to push in. It was like magic, the way Phichit’s head rolled back, the way he groaned when Celestino pushed his thick cock inside of him. Phichit's body was tight and hot and deliciously wet. Celestino puffed on his cigar as he rolled his hips, thrusting into the pliant little body.

Phichit made the filthiest little noises under him, breathy little moans and gasps and whimpers, his tight little ass rocking back to meet each thrust. Celestino slid a hand down, letting it rest on Phichit’s hip while he pulled the cigar from his lip, thrusting up and tilting back his head, letting more smoke spill from his lips and curl up to the ceiling. Back to his mouth it went.

Celestino wasn’t as young as he used to be, however. He could feel himself growing close, watching Phichit writhe beneath him in ecstasy. He reached down, jerking the boy off swiftly.

Phichit laughed. “So soon?”

Celestino chuckled, lightly tapping Phichit’s asscheek. “Quiet, you naughty thing.”

Celestino liked the feel of a body twitching with orgasm around him. He kept up his pace, holding himself off until Phichit grunted, gasping and moaning as come spilled into Celestino’s hands.

Celestino gave a few aborted thrusts into the spasming heat before spilling, clutching at the boy’s slender hips. Phichit cried out softly, sweetly, so overstimulated but pleased.

Celestino took another drag of the cigar. Post-coital contentment settled through him. He could feel himself softening inside the boy, the spill of his seed inside him.

Phichit was relaxed on the desk, eyes closed and smiling.

“I’ll see about evening it out in the future, but I make no promises. Tell Katsuki that the men in Chicago are still expecting a full order. And as long as Giacometti is out of commission and Karpisek is being useless, someone has to pick up the slack. I’m sure you boys won’t disappoint me.”

“Have I ever?” Phichit purred, clenching around Celestino’s cock.

Celestino swatted the boy’s ass again, chuckling. “Cheeky thing. But you make a good point. I'll see what I can do.”

* * *

 

“I can watch it all?” Yuri was wide-eyed with excitement. Night was falling, but the streets were anything but quiet as the officers shuffled to keep warm. Their breath ghosted in the air, rising up like dozens of souls.

Otabek nodded. “I told you, you have to stay back, at least across the street. It’s incredibly dangerous. If they’ve got any torpedos, it could get dangerous fast.”

“Torpedos?” Yuri asked. He looked around, blinking.

“Hired guns. The Italian mafia doesn’t mess around with their properties. You hear tommy guns, you take cover, you understand?” Yuri nodded eagerly. If that was all it took for this tremendous opportunity, Yuri would do anything.

And sure, there would be rules for a raid, especially one of this magnitude. Otabek was being as sensible as he could be given the circumstances, since bringing Yuri along was absolutely not sensible at all.

“Trying to impress your friend, Altin?” Victor asked lightly, a little bit of a tease in his tone.

“Take a hike, Nikiforov,” Yuri growled. Victor was smugly smiling in the back. Asshole. The officers started to circle. They were a few blocks away from their target, just out of plain sight. Nothing suspicious here, but close enough to head in at a command.

There was no telling what to expect within those doors.

Otabek said that these speakeasies were often hidden behind false doors and secret panels, revealing walls full of liquor and temples of gambling and sin. Otabek didn’t know how this one was set up, but the head of its operations was supposedly some man named Yuuri Katsuki.

It was bad enough a criminal had to have Yuri’s name. At least Victor seemed pleased enough to watch it all go down. Every time Katsuki’s name came up, Victor smiled and his work effort doubled.  

Good to know Victor was as determined to bring this man to justice as Yuri was. 

Silence fell, and Victor gave a short speech, something that must have been meant to be encouraging but ended up being vaguely condescending. Moron. Yuri eyed Otabek, watching his friend check over his equipment once more. At last, it was time.

The march happened fast, losing no time to their approach. Yuri kept pace, jogging beside them. He almost followed them right inside. Only thoughts of his grandpa held him at the door, hesitating. 

There was no sound of tommy guns. No screaming. No sounds of smashing glasses or chaos. There was only quiet.

Yuri picked his way inside, ignoring the protests of the officers stationed beside the secret door. It stood wide open, looking like a section of the wall set on hinges. Stairs led down.

Yuri followed them, peering through heavy velvet curtains, and he found himself in a room that was not at all what he’d been expecting. A family of four sat around a table playing cards. The walls were hung with sections of curtain like small cubicles, save for an area that resembled a bar. The bar’s shelves were stocked with shirts and costume pieces, one section overflowing with what looked like red roses.

The family were smiling and politely confused as Deputy Chief Nikiforov approached them. “Well this is a bit of a surprise, officers,” the short, older woman said, smiling. “Is something the matter?”

“We’re conducting an investigation into a tip that this establishment might be in possession of illicit substances. Would you happen to have any information on that?” Victor asked.

The older man laughed. “Illicit substances? I don’t know about that, but you’re welcome to take a look.”

Yuri would have been wheezing with laughter at the baffled expression on Victor’s face, if it wasn’t for the sheer level of confusion himself.

“Yuri, you shouldn’t be here-” Otabek started, then he broke off. “Well, it’s not like there’s anything happening,” he mused.

“You said this was a speakeasy,” Yuri said, jabbing a finger at Otabek’s chest. “Where’s the booze?”

“I don’t know,” Otabek said.

“Fan out, take a look,” Victor said, making a small gesture with his hands.  The officers started to search the place top to bottom, taking down curtains and tapping at walls, searching for secret compartments or trap doors that might have held some secret within.

The family left their card game to move around, watching over their shoulders, staying out of the way but politely assisting in the search by holding curtains and moving furniture out of the way.  

Otabek was at a loss. “I just... don’t understand,” he said. “I helped with the stakeouts. I didn’t see anyone moving anything in or out. Just musicians.”

They helped look the room over, but it was a puzzle without a solution. Meanwhile, the smile on Victor’s face was changing. It was softening. Not falling, like it should have from the disappointment of a failed raid. Something in Victor’s expression changed. It was still a smile, but something about was a little wider, a little deeper.

Emil clapped Victor on the shoulder. He leaned in close, and Yuri could just barely make out the words. “Looks like you might still have a chance with your dollface after all.”

Suddenly the little smile slipped, and Victor looked downright pleased. Yuri wanted to hurl. He threw himself into the search effort, frisking the place for secrets. Victor dismissed officers one by one as the minutes slowly passed. The older man and woman settled back at the table playing cards once more, and they dealt their daughter in once she joined them.

The supposed ringleader of the effort, the ‘Yuuri Katsuki’ that was reputedly the face of the speakeasy, stepped up to Victor. His hair was down and messy, and he wore spectacles. All sources of information agreed that the man was 23. He looked much younger than that. “Now there’s a familiar face,” Yuuri murmured.

“Nice to see you, too, doll,” Victor replied. The bastard was practically preening.

Yuuri blinked up through his eyelashes, abashed. “Did I look like I was doing something illegal?” He looked innocent. Classic trick. Victor wasn’t a spring chicken, and Yuuri could easily have been lying. Still, Victor leaned a little closer. His eyes were dark.

“Just following up on the evidence, I’m afraid. You’re not mad at me, are you?” Victor asked, grinning.

Yuuri looked thoughtful, but it was clear his pause was all flirting. “That depends, officer. Am I still in trouble?”

Yuri mimed throwing up on Otabek. “Gross,” he spat.

“Something wrong?” Otabek was refolding shirts that had been knocked to the ground.

The older woman bustled up, cooing, “Oh thank you, dear,” and began to help.

Yuri threw a dirty look at the pair in the corner. Otabek passed him a shirt. Yuuri stared at it, then at the two folding. He slowly started to fold it, glowering. “That guy was just suspected of being a criminal and now Victor is flirting with him. Disgusting. It’s shit like that ruining the sanctity of the force.”

Otabek shrugged. “Innocent till proven guilty.”

“I really am sorry about this trouble,” Victor said. “Let me take you out dancing, to make it up to you. We can have a little fun,” Victor said.

Yuuri looked genuinely surprised by the offer. “You know I dance everyday, Officer,” he said, not quite saying no, and flushing deep red.

“We can do whatever you like,” Victor said.

Yuuri laughed a little. “Well, I do like dancing. Say… tomorrow night?”

Victor kissed Yuuri’s knuckles. “It’s a date then.”

* * *

 

Minami kicked his heels against the wooden crate. It was a mess in here, the warehouse chilly and poorly insulated against the weather. He was shivering. Beside him, Seung Gil was thumbing at the strings of his bass.

They were surrounded, wall to wall, by countless bottles of liquor. Instrument cases were open and discarded, more bottles spilling out the top where the players had gotten lazy in the end. “Today was the pits,” was all Seung Gil said.

“Yuuri’s idea was brilliant, though!” Minami chirped. He kicked up onto his feet, spinning in a circle. When all the bottles were on the shelves, they looked deceptively small in quantity. Spreading them out made it easier to see just how many there were. 

“He could have done it a little earlier, is all I’m saying,” Seung Gil said. He set the bass aside, rubbing his hands together to warm them. Their breath frosted in the air. “He clearly didn’t calculate how many trips it would take to smuggle all of that liquor out of the building, especially with us being watched as we were.”

“We were being watched?” Minami’s eyes went round.

“You didn’t notice?”

Minami shook his head. It was quiet for a long moment. Minami shivered. He returned to bouncing on his heels, trying to keep warm.

The warehouse doors slammed open, spilling a long shaft of moonlight inside. Mila burst inside, a giggling woman on her arm. Both were dressed like flappers, their skirts ending at their knees, their dresses dripping in beads and baring their shoulders and backs. Mila swayed, a little drunk. “Yuuri says it’s safe to bring it back, now!”

Minami hopping to his feet, recognizing the other woman at last. “Hi Sara!” He waved, and she giggled at Minami. She wavered on her feet, clinging to Mila for balance. They dissolved into delighted giggles over some joke only they understood.

Seung Gil pulled a face. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Mila sang. “Come on, we brought some boys to help. Right Sara?”

Sara beamed. “You- hic! Got it!” she giggled, hiccuping. “Grab crates, we have to get these back to the Yu-topia.”

Four muscled men stepped in behind the girls. Minami grinned, watching as everything was speedily loaded back into instrument cases. It took no time at all for them to bring it all back. Much faster than the first time around.

Phichit was waiting for them when they carried the last crate back across the threshold. Bottles spilled out on the ground around him in wild disarray. “It’ll take hours to reorganize these,” he groaned.

Seung Gil huffed and dropped into a chair. “More or less time than it took to carry them all in and out?”

Phichit snorted, leaning across the bar to peck Seung Gil’s cheek. “You did great today. Thank you for helping us.” Seung Gil still looked upset. Phichit grabbed him by the chin, pulling him to lean forward over the counter-top. He stretched to his toes, and they kissed across the bar. Phichit smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll more than make it up to you later, okay?” He winked.

Seung gil’s cheeks colored faintly. “That’s… fine. Did you work things out with Cialdini?”

Phichit sighed and shook his head. “No. Nothing good. As long as Giacometti is in the slammer, we’re looking at indefinite double duty.”

“At least Chris was able to tip us off about the warehouse,” Seung Gil said after a moment. “If it hadn’t been for that…”

“Who knows what we would have done,” Phichit agreed quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: this song inspired most of this fic. The idea of musicians smuggling liquor in musical instruments really appealed to me. The last paragraph in this fic is also the very first one I wrote for this, so look forward to that, too!


	4. Hooked on You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As time passes, the day of reckoning draws nearer...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Hooked on You](https://youtu.be/ANbGAMsEwSg)
> 
> _Honey I'm love drunk, it's what you do to me. Let me tune into your spell bound frequency.  
>  Y_ _ou're making me tipsy. You're my toxic dream._

“You did what?” Phichit slammed down his drink, and the glass rattled with a bit of menace.

“I’m not saying it again,” Yuuri coughed. His cheeks were bright red. He buried his gaze in his glass, drinking long and deep. Water. He couldn't afford to have liquor on his breath.

“You’re a fool, you know.”

Yuuri peeked out over his glass. The bar was back to rights again. The hasty disguise they’d thrown up, making everything look like a backstage area made out of an old restaurant setup instead of the speakeasy it really was, had worked. Supposedly.

The officers hadn’t even found the foxhole hidden behind a bookshelf. The latch wasn’t hidden in a book because the Katsukis weren’t stupid, and the cops hadn’t thought to simply try pushing the shelf down hidden tracks, revealing a passage with a ladder that opened into the street.

Yuuri was glad for it. One less thing to explain to the police.

Now to explain himself to his best friend and the best bartender Yu-topia had ever had. “You’ve got Celestino and Seung-Gil,” Yuuri said.

“They’re on the same side of the law as me! If that Nikiforov fellow gets wind of what you really are, he’s gonna throw you in the big house. And you aren’t Giacometti, with a little web of lies and information to keep you out of the roughest parts.” Phichit’s angry look softened. “Look, I’m worried about you.”

“I’m a dancer.” Yuuri said, but it sounded awkward and forced, even to him. “He can’t arrest me for anything.”

“Suuuure,” Phichit snorted into his drink.

“It’s one night, anyway,” Yuuri scoffed. “You didn’t see the way he was looking at me. Guy like him only looks at someone that way when they’re interested in one thing. That’s all I need anyway. It’s not like I need a whole man to be happy. Just the important parts.”

Phichit slid the glass back and forth across the table. After a moment, he sighed. “Well, just be careful, Yuuri. We got out of one mess. Don’t be making more. And if you’re looking for a quick roll, I know a few guys in Celestino’s family. They’ll definitely treat you right,” he added with a wink.

Yuuri broke into a smile. “Thanks, but I can look out for myself, I think.”

“Yuuri, your officer is here,” Mari yelled down the stairs.

“Good luck,” Phichit said, waving. Yuuri stuck his head out the door, finding Victor standing in a nice suit, looking a little sheepish.

God he was beautiful. The first time Yuuri had seen him through this door, Yuuri had been entranced. A little buzzed, maybe, but he'd been fairly certain Victor’s looks would hold up sober. He was right last night, and he was right tonight. Victor looked good enough to eat.

“Mari,” he said disapprovingly. “You didn't scare my date, did you?”

Mari smiled innocently. “Baby brother, I would never.”

Yuuri stomped forward, flushing in embarrassment. “Sorry about them,” he said, grabbing Victor by the arm and tugging him towards the door. Outside, he quickly let go, as though Victor's touch stung.

Victor grabbed his arm back up with a little smile. “They were fine! Your sister is refreshingly blunt.”

“Refreshing,” Yuuri said in disbelief. His face felt hot when he noticed that Victor had curled his arm around Yuuri’s elbow, sticking close as they walked.  “Where are we… ah… headed?”

“I know a nice little dance hall down the way. The band’s not as good as Yu-Topia, but it should be a nice time all the same.”

A hesitant little smile broke over his face. “It does sound fun.”

They walked quietly, tension heavy in the air. A police officer. Yuuri was walking with a _police officer_. Easy on the eyes, certainly, and unflappably charming, but an officer all the same.

“Victor…” Yuuri started, then bit his tongue.

“Is something wrong? Do you not want to go dancing after all? I completely understand, I mean, you dance so much at your show, and I-” Victor’s eyes were wide and startled.

Yuuri couldn’t help it. He laughed. “For a cop, you sure fluster easily.”

Victor’s stopped on the street. He smiled, suddenly calm. “Just around you, doll. Don’t worry, I’ve got everything under control.”

Yuuri watched the change come over Victor. One moment Victor had been fumbling for the right words, and the next he was as cool and professional as the night he’d raided Yu-Topia. It wasn’t a reminder he liked. The whole raid had been heart-stoppingly terrifying. Even if things had miraculously gone off without a hitch, it didn’t change how close they’d brushed the law last night.

“You don’t have to put the cop act on for me,” Yuuri said, looking away. “I want to see you how you really are, not how you are at work.”

Victor’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Is that not something most people want?” Yuuri asked. “Surely people don’t expect you to be Officer Nikiforov all the time, do they?”

“Deputy Chief Nikiforov, actually,” Victor said, without a trace of pride in his tone. Instead, he just sounded exhausted. “And yeah… they usually do.”

“Well… not tonight,” Yuuri said. “Tonight, you’re not Deputy Chief. You’re just Victor.”

Victor smiled, and that old beauty Yuuri had seen that first night, the radiance of a man too entrancing for words, was suddenly eclipsed. This was beyond words. Yuuri almost froze in place, but Victor couldn’t hold still.

Arm in arm with Yuuri, they headed through the chilly night, making their way to the hall.

When they arrived, Yuuri could hear the music spilling out through the doors. The busy room still had plenty of room to dance. Victor grabbed him by the hand and pulled, and Yuuri followed, already falling under the spell of the music and Victor’s grin. They danced and sang off-key to the songs they recognized, swinging around the room to the heady jazz.

They did the charleston and the jive, lindyhopping their way through the crowd. They danced till they were breathless, then found the energy for another song. When he wasn’t putting on the cop act, something in Victor changed from what Yuuri had seen before. The formality and the stiffness lessened, making way for a surprising burst of youthful exuberance.

Victor didn’t have the stamina Yuuri did, but he had the enthusiasm to more than make up for it, swinging Yuuri in his arms and being swung in return. His laugh was bright. It must have been hours before they finally stepped away, giddy and free as children as they grabbed dinner at a nearby restaurant, an Italian place frequented by Celestino himself.

Yuuri knew he should keep his head down, but Victor marched them inside, pleased as could be, entirely unaware of the speakeasy just below their feet.

“You’re amazing, Yuuri!” Victor gasped over his plate of veal. His eyes glittered like stars

“I’ve had a lot of opportunity to practice,” Yuuri admitted. “I wouldn’t be anything if it wasn’t for my mentor, Minako. She’s quite famous.”

“You could be, too, I’m sure of it. What’s someone as talented as you doing in a town like this? You could have your name in lights in one of those big city productions. Boston. Chicago. New York.”

Yuuri scoffed. “Yeah, going to those big cities has a certain allure. But there’s not any guarantee, and I’m just a dime-a-dozen dancer. I go out there, and I know I wouldn’t be content to settle for second best. I’d have to be the best, the showrunner, the one in charge. I would have needed to be perfect. And I just don’t think I’m at that level yet.”

Victor looked ready to argue.

Yuuri shook his head. “I just… I’m not good enough yet. Plus, I can’t just leave my family. They need me. Without me… they could lose everything.” He looked up, and he started to sputter. “Oh, I’m sorry, I ruined the mood, I shouldn’t have-”

“Maybe it’s a good thing you’re still here then,” Victor murmured, taking Yuuri’s hand in his own. “If you’d gone to the big city, I might never have met you.”

“I- I don’t think-” Yuuri sputtered, when Victor brought his hand up to his lips, kissing the knuckles there.

“I had a lot of fun tonight, Yuuri. I’m sorry, I have to pull some late nights at work for the next few days, but would you be free on Tuesday night? Please, I’d love to be able to do this again with you.”

Yuuri felt a pang in his heart. This had been the most fun he’d had in ages. Victor was funny and sweet and charmingly blunt, a wonderful dancer and a terrible singer.

Yuuri needed to be strong. It was just two letters. N-O. That simple.

“Sure?” he said.

* * *

 

“You’re all useless!” Yakov bellowed, wrenching open the door to interrogation.

Their subject was smiling pleasantly, fingers laced and resting on the table before him. Christophe Giacometti looked more amused than intimidated by the shuddering sobs of the interrogator.

Yavok bundled Georgi out of the room with a dark look. Georgi had been a wreck ever since that girl of his left him, but this was getting beyond ridiculous. So much for putting the screws to the guy until he talked.

“Want something done right, you do it yourself,” he muttered under his breath. He slammed his hands onto the table. “We need more information, Giacometti. We searched every theater in town. Nothing. Either you give us something useful, or you’re spending your life behind bars. We’ve got enough evidence to put you away the rest of your days. Get talking.”

Christophe’s smile turned smug. “Is that so? Every theater, really? What about the Hudson? The Westpoint?”

“Don’t play games with me, Giacometti,” Yakov growled out, jabbing his finger towards him. He splayed his palms across the table, resting his weight there, eyes narrowed. “You lost your little game already. Your information is dated and your lifespan outside prison is running short.”

“Is that so?” Christophe asked. He blinked, long lashes hitting his cheekbones in faux innocence. “My oh my. I'm in a tricky pickle now, aren't I?” He grinned, long and slow.

Yakov seized his shirt, yanking the cuffed man out of his seat. “No more games. You tell me what you know in the next ten seconds or you're being led out of this room and headed upstate.”

“Fine, fine, you got me, oh masterful Chief of Police. We do receive regular shipments from Canada,” Christophe mused. “Does that help any?”

“We figured as much. Found a bottle of Canadian Club Whiskey on one of your boys when we brought you in. Gonna tell us who’s stealing from the Canadians and bringing it down? Or do you feel like going to prison until you’re an old man?”

Christophe chuckled lightly. “No, I can’t say I like the sound of that. You sure sound like you know everything you need to.”

Yakov growled low. “Five. Four. Three…”

“ _Although_ … now that you mention it, the border is quite lovely this time of the year. Especially around, say, 2 AM on a Thursday? Especially the third Thursday of the month.” Christophe’s smile widened.

Yavov snapped his fingers, already spinning away and barking orders. “That’s two weeks from now. Get on it, no time to lose” he said, pushing his way out of the interrogation room. He sent two more officers scrambling with hasty orders before stopping a third. “Where’s Victor?”

“Uh, on a date, sir, I believe?” the man said, sheepishly.

Yakov ground his fingers into his templed. “Well. Find him and tell him to get his ass here immediately. We’re going to crack this case wide open.”

* * *

 

The restaurant was spacious, front and back. Mila had never seen a place so large, so opulently decorated. The main restaurant for Celestino’s organization wasn't messing around.

Sara led her through the kitchen, waving at a pair of cooks behind a stove. It was before the evening rush, and things would pick up in a matter of hours. But for now, there was a tension in the air, the calm before a storm.

“So what do you think so far?” Sara asked. Her smile was like a sunrise, slow and unstoppable. She was back in her floor length dresses and Mila was suffering. “My mom always loved cooking, and Americans just love to eat it. She should be here somewhere, I think. Maybe downstairs. Dad’s making wine right now, and she promised to help him.”

“I'd love to meet them both,” Mila managed to say warmly. Even without the ambient heat of the kitchen, she'd have felt warm here, Sara’s fingers laced in hers. Everything felt fluttery inside her. Nerves, she told herself. Not like stage fright. Easier than that. Steadier. This was a mistake and god it felt right.

A finger tapped lightly at her shoulder, and she turned to see a soft-looking man, perhaps as old as she was, dressed in a very expensive-looking suit. “Good afternoon, you're with the Katsukis, correct?”

Sara paused, looking confused. Mila nodded at him. “I am, why?”

“Excellent. Could you pass a message along to them?They were removed from police suspicion as of this morning, and the precinct is pursuing other points of interest.  Namely one little Canadian Club who might have a leak that's supplying our little city as well as the greater Chicago area. Might keep an eye out, I'd advise.”

Mila tilted her head, watching the man smile pleasantly at her. “And how would you know all this?”

“I have sources inside the police force. Anything beyond that is confidential.” He winked and waved. “Well, that's all. Have a nice day.”

Mila looked at Sara. “Is that… normal? Should I believe him?”

Sara's eyes widened. “You should. He's never wrong. I don't know where he gets his information but it's always good. That's Guang-Hong Ji. He’s been in Celestino’s pocket for years. He worked close with Giacometti before he was arrested. That was his only slip the whole time I've known him. If he says something, it's true.”

Mila nodded. A sick feeling curled inside her. “So they don't suspect Yuuri anymore. But if they're investigating the Canadian Club…”

“Then the Katsuki’s are still in trouble,” Sara murmured, eyes going wide. Sara sighed. Her arms wrapped delicately around Mila’s waist. “I suppose this means no shopping, then.”

Mila nodded her head. “Let's see how bad Yuuri takes the news first.”

* * *

 

Yuri mimed gagging as Victor swept into work on cloud nine.

The changes were small and subtle, but Victor was an idiot and Yuri was not. Yuri could see the way Victor’s smile was a shade different from normal even if Otabek didn't.

Victor just chuckled. “You’re not even supposed to be here, Yurio.”

“What did you just call me?” Yuri spat, launching himself out of his seat.

“Be lucky I don’t call you a babysitter, Yurio,” Victor replied. “And I can’t very well call you Yuri when there’s another Yuuri as well.”

“You mean your criminal,” Yuri said. “Who should be rotting in prison right now, not sucking you off before work.” He settled back into the chair, but he didn’t relax. His eyes stayed narrowed at Nikiforov.

Victor moved around a desk, shedding a snow-dusted winter coat to hang on a hook. His smile was wider now, all teeth and lips. “He’s innocent, Yurio, you know that. We can’t wish evidence where it doesn’t exist, unlike your father.” Yuri went deathly still. Victor waved. “Well, have a nice day, I’ve got actual work to do.”

Yuri was shaking with barely contained fury when he felt a gentle touch to his shoulder. He flinched, ready to lash out. It was just Otabek.

His friend was watching him like someone might watch a cornered animal. Yuri forced himself to relax. His breath came in short, sharp huffs, nails digging into the meat of his palms. “That asshole,” he hissed.

“That was a low blow. He shouldn’t have said that,” Otabek said, glancing at Victor’s office.

“It just means that Katsuki fellow isn’t as innocent as he looks right now, and Victor knows it. You saw the evidence. The Katsukis have a speakeasy down there. It’s got a secret door, it looks like a bar down there. You know they had to have hidden the hooch somewhere. Maybe they have a secret door or something...” Yuri muttered. His mind was racing already, plotting ways to get down there and take another look himself.

“Even if they did hide it, we have no proof,” Otabek said. “So in the eyes of the law, until something changes, Yuuri Katsuki is an innocent man.”

There was a long, heavy silence in the air when Otabek returned to his work, thumbing through documents thick with black text. Yuri couldn’t help but glare at windows to Victor’s office.

“He really shouldn’t have said that,” Yuri muttered, finally letting the tension spill out of his shoulders. “What a bastard. He and that Katsuki criminal deserve each other. Anyway. You said I could help. What do you need me to do before this sting thing?”

They worked for hours, and it was more entertaining than trying to hawk papers streetside. Even if Victor did sweep out of his office every hour like clockwork, refreshing his mug of coffee and humming a jazzy little number under his breath.

Yuri flashed Otabek a warning look, but it was ignored. “You’re in a… very good mood today,” Otabek said. Yuri snorted. So the idiot was humming a song. Whatever.

Victor sighed, long and dreamily, a blissful look on his face. “Everything is just perfect. Yuuri is perfect.”

“Back to work,” Yakov barked, swatting Victor on the back of the head with a rolled newspaper. Victor looked like a kicked dog. Yuri laughed. “We don’t stop for one shipment of alcohol. Georgi, get on the beat. Your turn now. And dry your eyes, you’ll never see crooks if you’re sobbing your eyes out.”

Georgi, who had been steadily working his way through a small pile of handkerchiefs, blotted his eyes. He’d been wearing more makeup than a flapper when he’d shown up this morning. He was almost unrecognizable without it.

“And where are those papers from the Giacometti arrest? I need them on my desk immediately,” Yakov said. He locked eyes with Yuri, who was leaning conspicuously against Otabek’s desk. His lips twisted. “You’re not bored yet, boy?”

“I’m not a boy. I’ll be graduating in two years,” Yuri said, lifting his chin. The newsboy cap fell over his eyes and he hastily ripped it off his head. “And then I’m going to work here. Just you wait, I’ll be the best officer you’ve ever seen.”

“One of Lilia’s, correct?” Yakov asked. He snorted, nodding once to himself. “Makes sense.”

Yuri frowned. “What does that mean?”

Otabek shrugged. “Not sure. Hey, can you run this to Leo upstairs? He needed to see these copies before he left today and I’m swamped down here.”

Yuri grabbed them with a shrug and a ‘sure’. Something on Yakov’s face had left him unsure of whether he was allowed to be here or not. But since he hadn’t been sent away yet...

Yuri’s eyes flicked down to the papers as he climbed the flight of stairs to where Leo was. Documents about more supposed speakeasy locations to scout out, some information on future raids in smaller venues, and a list of a few bathtub gin mixers trying their hand who had been taken in.

He’d be there soon, Yuri told himself. Leo thanked him with a smile. Not soon enough.

* * *

 

“Yuuri sure looks happy,” Minami sighed. The kid had a smile a mile wide as he watched Yuuri run through dance moves at an easy pace. “I wonder why.”

Mari snickered. “A little bird says Yuuri’s found a special friend.” Minami cocked his head as Phichit slid up beside them, joining them at their table. He pulled a chair around and took a seat on Minami’s other side, where he could easily see the stage.

Phichit’s expression was complicated, more than a little unreadable. A strange change, considering Phichit’s usual grin he wore like a favorite accessory. “More than special, I hear they’re going out again tonight,” Phichit added.

“Again?” Minami rose up in his chair, rubbernecking to see Yuuri better.

“You could try not talking about me where I can hear you,” Yuuri chided. He was moving languidly through dance moves, the fluid twists of his body more natural than the popular dances of the day. Ballet was not a popular choice for shows, but it was a passion he indulged in when he found himself stressed.

There was something about the feeling of flying that stole the tension from his muscles, filled his cold bones with warmth. It gave him a place to bury his mind and, for a spell, forget.

“Well someone’s been acting different all day,” Phichit said. “You can’t blame us for noticing.”

“Not that different,” Yuuri retorted. He let his pose fall and he shrugged his shoulders. His body burned faintly, not exhausted, but warm. “I need to change.”

“My own brother dating a police officer,” Mari sighed, mocking disappointment in her tone. “Where did we go wrong?” She shook her head. She almost looked disgusted, and it was a convincing enough act, unless you looked a bit closer. Then, she just looked an inch away from bursting into laughter.

Yuuri readied himself, slicking back his hair from his face and dressing himself up a little more than the previous date. He’d rather been hoping to have a roll in bed with Victor the last time, but the way the night ended, Yuuri hadn’t even realized the missed opportunity until Victor had kissed his cheek like a gentleman and wished him goodnight at the door. He hadn't even come upstairs.

Good thing they'd try again tonight. Yuuri repeated it again and again in his head. He just wanted a quick roll with Victor and nothing more. Didn't he?

Victor’s mouth gaped like a fish when Yuuri greeted him. “Is this okay? I don't look stupid, do I?” he asked, suddenly panicking. “I can change if I-”

“No,” Victor coughed. He was red to the tips of his ears. “No, no, you look… you look amazing. I mean, you always look amazing, but right now you look…”

“So it's okay?”

“More than okay,” Victor breathed.

Yuuri smiled. “You look pretty more than okay, too,” he said. Victor wore suits like he'd been born for it. The cut showed off his tall figure, the broad shoulders, the slim waist. Yuuri had never wanted to tear a suit jacket off someone so badly before.

But see, that was the problem. There was something about Victor. It wasn't something Yuuri could pin down in words. The feeling didn't have a name. But if Yuuri had to describe it, explain why it was so strange…

It was like Yuuri wanted to be ravished by the man, wanted Victor to lose those threads of control and take him. But Yuuri didn't want to stop there. He wanted them to finish, roll over, and continue. He wanted to be claimed sweet and slow, wanted to kiss Victor for hours.

He wanted to know if Victor liked dogs, what his favorite food was, if he preferred to stay up all night or wake up early. It was that kind of feeling, and Yuuri couldn't make heads nor tails of it.

At the film, Yuuri couldn't help but sneak guilty glances out the corner of his eye. Their hands were so close together. Would Victor’s palm feel warm?

Yuuri had never been so nervous before and he couldn't explain it. The first night had been so easy. Tonight was hell. It was worse than any pre-show anxiety, a clutching fear of failure.

Victor caught him staring, and Yuuri forced himself to look back at the silver screen, a flush burning in his cheeks. Victor’s hand turned over, palm up, fingers loosely open.

An offer. No pressure. No assumptions. Victor was staring at the screen again.

Yuuri watched his expression as he slowly laid his palm over Victor’s, curling their fingers together. A smile crept over Victor’s face. He gently squeezed Yuuri’s hand.

Yuuri felt like flying.

“What would you like for dinner?” Victor asked as they left. “My treat.”

Yuuri shook his head. “No, no, mine.” He froze. He felt daring. He felt bold. “Victor, have you ever tried katsudon?”

Victor shook his head. “What is it?”

Yuuri grinned. He dragged Victor to his house, begging his mom to make a bowl of katsudon for Victor to try. “Once you eat my mother’s recipe,  nothing will ever taste as good,” he swore. Yuuri’s mother smiled at the praise.

When the twin bowls slid in front of them, Yuuri couldn't hold himself back. He moaned happily at the first taste of egg, the pork, the rice. Victor was laughing.

“No, no, try it, I promise,” Yuuri said. “You'll understand.”

He watched carefully as Victor took a bite. Victor's whole face lit up. “Is this what God eats?” he cried, starting to shovel food into his mouth. “Mm, delicious, so good,” he muttered through mouthfuls. His eyes glittered.

“It isn't very healthy so I don't eat it except for special occasions,” Yuuri said. He savored the taste, watching as Victor polished off the bowl. He had rice stuck to his face from his feeding frenzy. He was so beautiful it hurt to look.

Victor’s smile widened. “So is this a special occasion, then?”

Yuuri looked away, cheeks hot. “It might be.”

They headed to the dance hall again to work off the meal, laughing and holding each other in their arms.

It was the most fun Yuuri could remember ever having sober. Which was to say, it was the most fun he could ever remember. They danced till the band quit and the dance hall kicked them out.

Yuuri felt drunk on the feeling. The blue of Victor’s eyes was more intoxicating than any drink. “I don't want this night to end,” he breathed.

“I have some phonograph records at home,” Victor breathed. “Come with me?”

“Yes,” Yuuri said. He wrapped his arms around Victor’s elbow and Victor flushed beautifully, grinning.

Victor led him to his home, a nice little place on the wealthier side of town. Inheritance, Victor said. They swung into the living room.

“My record selection is over there, if you'd like to pick something,” Victor said. “Coke or water?”

Yuuri considered for a moment, swaying without music. Honestly, he wanted something a bit stronger. But no cop in his right mind would have a bottle of booze in this day and age, and Yuuri wasn't dumb enough to ask. “Coke would be lovely,” he said.

He thumbed through Victor’s assortment of records, looking for something he knew would be slow and sweet. Victor left for the kitchen. He came back with a bottle in each hand, the tops popped and loose.

They swept into another dance, the crackling phonograph sweet and low in the background. They swayed to the music. Victor’s arms around him were warm, so warm, and Victor pink lips were wet. Yuuri stretched on his toes.

The kiss was sweeter than expected, fizzy with traces of soda pop on their tongues. Victor’s hands dropped to Yuuri’s waist.

It was lazy and languid and so absolutely perfect, a long, slow kiss as they slowly moved around the room

Victor tugged him to the bedroom, and Yuuri followed, dazed and thrilled. They fell back onto the mattress, shedding clothes between kisses, until only bare skin remained.

It was soft, sweet. In a word, Yuuri would have called it bliss, the soft rocking of their bodies together, unhurried in its perfection. They lost themselves to one another, and fell asleep in each others arms.

When morning dawned, they curled lazily around each other in bed, exchanging sleepy kisses as they slowly woke. Victor’s fingers made gentle passes over Yuuri’s bare skin. Yuuri let his fingertips rest over the plane of Victor’s stomach.

“We should do this again, I think,” Victor murmured.

Yuuri hummed. “We should. I'll be out of town the next few days, though.”

Victor chuckled breathlessly. “I will, too, funnily enough. Going anywhere fun?”

“Chicago,” Yuuri murmured. The lie sprang to his lips easily enough. “Trying out for a spot at a theater.”

“You'll do wonderful,” Victor promised.

Yuuri shook his head. “I don't know for sure if I even want it. And anyway, they probably won’t even want me.”

“They’d be crazy not to,” Victor swore.

“What are you doing?” Yuuri asked, rolling over.

“Official police business,” Victor said with a yawn. “It’s all really boring, really. I’d rather be with you.”

“I would, too,” Yuuri said, scared because it was the truth.

Because, Yuuri realized, he was in love. Because tomorrow, Victor would be doing his damnedest to catch the smugglers coming down from Canada.

Because after tomorrow, everything might be over for them both.

* * *

 

Morooka was anxiously drumming his fingers on the desk. “Slow news day,” he commented.

Lilia tsked him gently. “Give it time, Morooka. Between the cops and those idiot mafiosos, someone will slip up sometime soon.”

* * *

 

Mila dragged her fingernails lightly over Sara’s bare back.

“Nervous?” Sara asked.

Mila didn’t say anything. She rolled over, and she pulled Sara into another kiss.

* * *

 

The crates were taped up, the cars loaded. JJ slapped his hand on the metal carapace of the car. “Alright, the Chicago order is ready to ship out. I'll leave you to it. And let me know whenever Katsuki’s men pick it up.”


	5. Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  [Midnight](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8b-ecNhMIyw)  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> _  
>  Midnight… ooooh it’s midnight...  
>  _

The pick-up was easy enough. There were sneaky back roads they'd used a time or two before, slipping up to Canada for a few bottles of the good stuff. It was nothing to get themselves up to the bottling facility run by the Leroys.

Once they arrived, they split into the three groups needed to haul the entire shipment. Celestino's contribution had been a trio of Chrysler B-7's to use for the trip, and it would certainly make things simpler. Yuuri and Phichit would take one car, Mila and Seung Gil in a second, Mari and Minami in a third. The cars were loaded by large men bundled up against the cold. Yuuri shivered, watching his breath rise in curling clouds.

Somewhere on the roads between Canada and Chicago, Victor was waiting. And if he caught them, Yuuri would never see the light of day again. It was easier to think of that than to imagine Victor’s reaction.

Mari pulled out first, driving slowly down moonlight roads. Snow was falling, but not sticking. That could always change quickly. Yuuri checked over Mila and Seung Gil’s car quickly, making sure the crates were settled properly. Mari was magic behind the wheel, but Mila was reckless enough that Yuuri had doubts.

When he turned around, Phichit and Seung Gil were locked in an embrace. Yuuri coughed. They parted with one last peck on the lips. “Bulls on parade tonight. Drive safely, okay?” Phichit murmured, wrapping his arms around Seung Gil’s neck, their foreheads touching. It was a sweet gesture, and it made Yuuri ache somewhere deep in his chest.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Seung Gil replied. His eyes were closed. If he looked stern, it was only because Seung Gil’s expression rarely varied from its usual state of sullen irritation. Phichit was smiling enough for the both of them, wistful and more than a touch sad.

Phichit laughed softly. “I would never.”

“See you in Chicago, Noni,” Seung Gil said.

Seung Gil and Mila took the second car and peeled out of the bottling facility.

Yuuri did an inspection of their own car before deeming it fit for transport. He looked up at the stars. Dawn would break in a few hours. They needed to be on the road. “Do you want first shift, or me?” he asked.

“I’ll take first go,” Phichit said. Yuuri nodded and took the passenger side. They started off. The other two were far enough ahead that they vanished in the trees, completely out of sight. Phichit took the way carefully, but quickly.

The scenery melted into a hazy blur of dark trees. The night was quiet, save for the sound of the engine thrumming. Rationally, Yuuri knew he should nap. It would be a long drive to Chicago, and they needed to get back to Detroit as quickly as they could to keep suspicion low.  

But he couldn't help but watch their six for a sign of something wrong.

It was an hour or so before Yuuri caught sight of something strange behind them. He sat up a little straighter in the seat. Something was moving in the darkness. Another car, following them at a distance.

They had a tail.

* * *

 

There was no guarantee the officers would find anyone, not when there were more ways to get from Canada to Chicago than Victor could count, and not all of them were marked on maps. But a bit of basic reconnaissance of the area and previous bootlegger arrests gave them a few clues as to possible places to search out and patrol.

There wasn’t enough manpower to devote to this project, not really. Not without diverting too much away from the rest of the police station. But Yakov had given this high enough priority that as many cars were patrolling the major targets as possible. Even Victor wasn’t excused.

He sat with eyes open and searching for a glimpse of movement, a flash of moonlight on steel. Some sign that someone, somewhere, was up past their bedtime and being naughty. He muffled a yawn. Sleepless nights were never fun.

He had pulled off the road, relying on the little side road’s relative shelter and the dark of the night to keep him out of sight. It was cold in the car.

At least Yuuri was somewhere warmer, bundled up and sleeping and hopefully not too anxious before his performance. Victor smiled to himself. Yuuri would do great.

Victor’s lips twitched. Not ten minutes later, a dark car came rumbling past. Victor pulled onto the road with a little smile.

Either they’d stop to stretch, or they’d lead Victor all the way back to the warehouse. Both were appealing in their own ways. He kept his distance just enough to stay out of sight, but not so far that he’d lose them.

And he watched, and he waited, as the miles slipped away.

* * *

 

“Still following us?” Phichit murmured. Dawn would break in less than an hour. The sky was growing more pale by shades. The faint light threw drastic shadows over the forests. Ponds became shimmering mirrors, catching the first streaks of light in the sky and throwing it back. It was almost cold enough to freeze, and the snow was still threatening to stick.

Yuuri was close to shredding the seats under his fingernails, anxiously clutching at the leather. “Still following us,” he confirmed.

“We have to do something.” Yuuri ran his fingers through his hair and tried to keep from breaking out into hives just imagining being dragged back home in cuffs.

“The precinct is understaffed to begin with,” Yuuri murmured. “And they can’t send all of their men to chase us down. Which means they can’t have more than one person in a car at a time.”

“No,” Phichit said, grasping Yuuri’s point immediately.  

“We have to,” Yuuri said. “If we don’t get this shipment to Chicago, we all go down. If it’s just one of us, we can do our best to lie our way out. Especially if the other takes the goods and gets them out of the picture.”

“No, Yuuri. Your loverboy thinks you’re already in Chicago. He finds you here, or if some other officer drags you back and tells him, then he’s going to know something’s up. You can’t bluff your way out twice. Once is a coincidence. Twice is suspicious.”

“We don’t have a choice. You want him following us all the way to Chicago? Want him to get my sister and the band?”

“They’re not taking Seung Gil,” Phichit hissed. His fingers white-knuckled the wheel. “Fine, we make a break for it. You go right, I go left. Meet back here if it’s safe.”

“And if it isn’t, we agree to leave the other,” Yuuri said.

Phichit whined. “Please, Yuuri, I can’t-”

“Promise you’ll leave me if you have to,” Yuuri said. “Promise me you’ll get out safely.”

Phichit huffed. “Only if you promise me as well.” Yuuri bodily twitched. “You hypocrite,” Phichit laughed quietly. He fell silent for a long moment, watching as a turn drew closer. “We round the corner, and I’ll stop the car. Run, and don’t come back till it’s safe. He’ll have to chase one of us.”

Yuuri nodded. He closed his eyes, bracing for Phichit’s sudden stop. The bottles rattled violently, but Yuuri paid it no mind as he threw himself from the car, taking off into the woods. Behind him, he heard Phichit do the same, taking off in the opposite direction.

The police cruiser stopped. Yuuri heard a slamming door, the sound of footsteps crunching through leaves behind him, giving chase. Yuuri might not have been the fastest man alive, but he could dance longer than anyone and run further than any officer on the beat ever could.

Trees broke into open farmland, crop fields barren from winter and sitting beside a large barn and a small cluster of other buildings.

He glanced back, seeing the uniformed officer behind him give chase, and Yuuri poured on as much speed as he could, making for the little farmstead. It didn’t matter how long he ran if he wasn’t fast enough to stay ahead.

At least Phichit would make it out safely.  

* * *

 

Victor jerked to a stop. The car he’d been following was idling in the road. He caught sight of a body vanish into the woods and he sprinted out of his own car.

To think they actually believed they could get away.

* * *

 

Yuuri couldn’t breathe. This was it. This was the end.

The officer chasing him was struggling to narrow the gap between them. Yuuri didn’t dare look back, couldn’t risk the chance that the officer would see his face and ruin everything, even if Yuuri managed to get away somehow.

The odds of that were dropping lower, lower. The officer wasn’t gaining any ground, though he wasn’t losing any either. The buildings loomed in the darkness, great black walls that melted into the ground, silhouetted against the fading sky. Yuuri’s mind was racing as fast as his legs, pumping his arms faster and faster.

There was a sound of sliding metal, a bullet hitting the chamber, and Yuuri’s blood ran colder than the frozen air. A gunshot, deafeningly loud, ripped through the air. A strangled cry ripped from Yuuri’s lips. Raw fear clenched his heart.

Death hadn’t been a part of the plan.

Another booming report cut the harsh rhythm of Yuuri’s breath. Yuuri could practically feel the heat as the bullet whizzed past his face, too close for comfort. A hysterical sob escaped him. His palms were weeping blood from where his fingernails had bit right through the skin.

He was going to die here. His body would be brought home, laid out, just another filthy bootlegger breaking the laws. Victor would find out, Victor would know the terrible, awful, horrible things Yuuri had done to keep his family safe and comfortable.

Yuuri risked a glance back. There was another report. It came with the breathtaking punch of fire.

The heat was the first thing that registered, pure flame racing across the span of his ribs. Quick as a match catching, there came the surging feeling of pain, pulsing louder than the pounding in his ears. It almost bowled him over, like being kicked in the torso.

He screamed. It was agony, first the heat, then the pain, a knife across his ribs, then the strange fluid feeling of liquid spilling down his side. His skin prickled like a burn, and he could smell charred flesh.

Yuuri forced himself to keep running despite the pain, but every step was worse and worse by turns until he was gasping, already short on breath but now wheezing from the bright, white-hot bursts of pain.

Outrunning the officer had been a wishful proposition to begin with.

Yuuri clutched his side and struggled to keep his pace up. He felt like sobbing in relief when he ducked around the barn, scrambling to a point on its opposite side. He wove to put another outbuilding between them.

The sound of grass crushed underfoot slowed as his pursuer came to a stop. Yuuri was gasping for air, and he desperately tried to stay quiet. It burned, it burned so bad. He stifled his sobs. The footsteps were quiet, so quiet he almost couldn’t hear them leave the grass. There was the soft crushing sound of a dirt path underfoot.

Yuuri listened to the pursuer begin to make his way around the building, and Yuuri circled around, staying to the opposite side. He could see the stretch of fields that would lead to the line of trees by the roadside. It was so far away, and he could feel hot blood spilling through his fingers. He’d never outrun the officer back to the car. He glanced over the other direction. There was a short stretch of field leading to more trees, denser than by the roadside, but in the opposite direction of where Yuuri needed to be. They kept circling.

Yuuri passed a ladder and paused, glancing back the way he’d come. He could still hear the footsteps. The deafening gunshot must have been ringing in the officer’s ears, it had been so loud even so far away. If Yuuri was quiet, he stood a chance. He pulled himself up one-handed, struggling to keep from crying out as he slowly worked his way to the roof, climbing as quickly as he could through the pain. His head spun. If the pain didn’t render him unconscious, a fall certainly would. He kept his grip tight and kept moving.

He didn’t dare look down. He listened instead, eyes closed, clutching his side. He heard a soft _pat pat_ of blood striking the barn shingles. He felt around, hand landing on a loose wooden shingle. He opened his eyes.

The officer knew he was hit. He must have heard Yuuri’s scream. Perhaps he’d think Yuuri would slip into the shadows of the woods to hide. Yuuri threw the shingle as hard as he dared, biting his lip to hold back the pained gasp. It startled a bird, sending it skittering through the woods, and Yuuri let out a sigh of relief when the officer sprinted after it, chasing the sudden movement.

Yuuri clung to the roof until he could no longer hear the sound of sprinting, and he lowered himself down the ladder, clutching his side. He was bleeding hard now. Every step left a trail of blood. If Yuuri didn’t move fast, he’d be found immediately.

He was no stranger to pain. He’d taken falls in his life, broken bones and twisted ankles and more bruises than he could count. But this was more than anything he’d felt ever before, starbursts of fire and pain exploding up and down his side. Yuuri hurried, limping his way as quickly as he could back to the road.

He could always try and take the officer’s car to the meeting place.

Every snapping stick and broken branch made him twitch in fear. He stopped at the road. Phichit was there still, the car engine idling. Yuuri swore loudly when Phichit opened the door for him.

“You promised,” he panted.

“Like I could leave your ass behind,” Phichit retorted. Yuuri threw himself into the car, clutching his side. He pulled a hand away, and it was slick and red. “Oh shit, is that blood?” Phichit yelped.

“Drive,” Yuuri said. “Quick, before he comes back.”

Phichit’s eyes were wide with horror. “We don’t have to worry about him catching up, at least,” he breathed. He slammed his foot on the gas, and they took off, pitching down the road. Yuuri sagged back into the seat, whimpering with every bump of the road beneath them.

“What do you mean?” Yuuri asked. He sucked in a sharp, pained breath. “He’s going to find out I tricked him and get back to his car. My blood will lead him right back here.”

Phichit let out a nervous laugh. “He can’t. I cut his tires.” Yuuri’s own laugh felt slightly hysterical, out of his control, and it left tears shimmering in his eyes from pain. “Just a little longer, Yuuri,” Phichit breathed. He was leaning forward, plunging down the road as fast as he could.

The adrenaline rush was long gone. Yuuri was left shaky and exhausted.

Twenty minutes down the road, Phichit pulled them onto the shoulder of the dirt road. Yuuri was sagged back into the seat, taking shallow breaths, trying desperately to put pressure on the wound through the spikes of pain. “I think we’re far enough away,” Phichit breathed. “Fuck, we need to do something. What do I do?”

“Alcohol,” Yuuri ground out. “Clean around it. Whatever’s purest.”

Phichit nodded, hurrying out of the car and circling around to the back. He broke open one of the cases, digging around inside. “Whiskey, wine… Vodka?”

“Perfect,” Yuuri gasped. “Grab my bag. You can cut up one of the shirts.” There was a sound of ripping fabric. Phichit soaked a strip with the vodka. Yuuri sat back, gingerly pulling the shirt out of the way. The edges of the graze were charred, reeking of burnt skin and faintly singed. The wound itself was angry and red.

“Oh my god, you were shot?” Phichit hissed.

“Just a graze,” Yuuri bit out. “Got lucky.”

“Lucky would be not getting hit,” Phichit said. He passed Yuuri the vodka-soaked cloth, and Yuuri carefully dabbed the skin surrounding the wound. He hissed in pain. Phichit kept at his task of shredding a shirt into a long bandage.

After a moment, Yuuri pulled the cloth away, gritting his teeth. Once the blood was cleaned away, he held the edges of the wound together. There was nothing else they could do but bind it up and hope it didn’t kill him on the way to Chicago.

Phichit had to help him bind his ribs up. It hurt to lift his arm much, to move at all. But he’d live for now, and they’d gotten past the first obstacle on their path. They could only hope they wouldn’t find any others.

Yuuri let out a little huff. “So much for a clean sneak.”

“Did the officer see your face?”

“Don’t think so,” Yuuri said. With his injury bound, he was able to finally settle a little deeper into the seat. He was still coated in blood. It covered his hands where it hadn’t been wiped away by the vodka-rag, and it streaked his face where he’d mindlessly pushed his hair from his temples, brushed his cheeks with reddened fingers.

“We can take you to a hospital-”

“No,” Yuuri said. He shook his head. “Too suspicious. It’ll attract too much attention. It’ll be alright. An old friend has her medical license. Yuuko Nishigori, she should still live on Front Street. She’ll patch me up. She’ll ask questions, but she can keep her mouth shut.”

“You’re positive?”

He closed his eyes and nodded. “I think I’ll take that nap now,” he murmured.

* * *

 

The cuffs closed with a snap. “You’re under arrest,” Victor said, “for the illegal transportation of illicit substance across borders.” The bootlegger had rum soaking his clothes from where it had shattered in the chase. The pursuit had been short-lived, a glorious little wake up call that made Victor’s blood race and left him feeling alive. He drove back to the precinct, victorious, the culprit spitting a steady stream of protests, swears, and ‘you’ve got the wrong guy!’s.

Yakov clapped him on the back when Victor led the man inside to the holding cells. It was the closest thing to a ‘good job’ Victor was probably ever going to get from the man. He’d take it.

“At least that tip was worth something after all,” Yakov said reluctantly. “But this isn’t enough. There should be much more somewhere on those roads. The bootleggers must have split up. Get back out there, Victor. Keep looking. They’re still on their way there.”

“But Yaakooov,” Victor whined, before closing his mouth. What he wanted most was the chance to see Yuuri again, his beautiful, perfect, lovely Yuuri. But Yuuri was still out of town, and would be for a while yet. With a resigned sigh, Victor nodded. “Alright then, I’ll keep looking.”

Victor hit the road once more.

It wasn’t fun. Victor could never argue that he enjoyed his job. Maybe once upon a time he did, back when he’d been young and fired up like little Yurio was. Back when it felt like what he did had meaning.

But what was the point? Victor could pretend he was loyal through and through, the way he’d always been, but the truth was that he was tired. So very, very tired. Arrest one person and two more would cause trouble elsewhere.

Christophe had been right, calling it a hydra. You couldn’t kill the beast by cutting off a head, hoping it would be an end. It would just lead to new beginnings, a never-ending battle to keep head above water. They were taking out normal people who just wanted a drink on the weekends.

Victor’s father and mother had been like that. Never given to excesses, but an occasional glass of wine, that was never so wrong, was it?

Victor had hidden away an old expensive bottle of Madeira before prohibition had ever started. Because he was an officer of the law, he was supposed to pour it out? He couldn’t share the wine with the man he loved without being a traitor to his badge?

This struggle was all so fruitless, really. And what did he have to show for it?

Just Yuuri. Just the beautiful dancer Victor was fortunate enough to cross paths with at that fateful show. They were moving fast, crazy and free, and Victor loved the feeling, loved Yuuri’s kisses, loved the chance to love and be loved in return.

Would Yuuri have thought him a traitor for bringing out that old vintage? Victor couldn’t afford to think like that. Yakov wouldn’t just have his badge, he’d have his head. Victor… he was better than that, surely. His eyes fluttered tiredly as the sun passed so slowly overhead.

An all-nighter probably wasn’t the best for his decision-making process. Maybe when he got home, he’d straighten himself out. Be the good cop Yakov wanted him to be, finally dump out that bottle of wine. Maybe it would help Yuuri stay with him forever.

They made a few small busts on the way to Chicago, rounding up a few small-scale rumrunners with cleverly hidden aprons beneath their clothing concealing a bevy of boozy beverages. But nothing they found was quite like what Yakov wanted. He spent the next night passed out on a bed in one of the Chicago precincts, dreaming of Yuuri’s body twisting in a dance hall, laughing and free. When morning came, he borrowed a shower and a clean uniform, and he started the long drive home.

It was late again when he finally saw the twinkling city lights.

There was nothing Victor wanted more than to stretch his legs and see his lovely Yuuri, not even his own bed could compare. Would his love even be home? Yuuri had never specified how long his audition would take, but it couldn’t last longer than it had taken Victor to drive for the endless, countless hours his search had lasted. Home was an empty, darkened thing. Yuuri beckoned with a stronger pull, and Victor drove to to the theater without bothering to even change out of his uniform.

Victor let himself inside  with a gentle rapping of his knuckles on the door. The family lived above, their little apartment cozy in the space above their work. It was dark, with lights coming from upstairs and through the crack leading into their backstage area. The false door hung slightly ajar, sending out a shaft of yellow light.

Victor crept down the stairs, hoping he’d be fortunate enough to find Yuuri changing for some kind of practice on the stage, dressing in the lovely little skimpy outfits he’d seen among the selection of costumes when they’d last searched the place.

Victor nosed past the curtain and stopped dead.

Instead of curtains hung like walls, there were tables spanning the floor, empty tonight but clearly used earlier in the evening, if the moisture rings, crumbs, and empty glasses were any indication. Instead of costumes, the shelves were overflowing with bottles and glasses, all different shades of whiskey-brown, bottle blue, and red wine like blood.

Yuuri sat alone in the room, shirtless, a bandage wrapped around his torso. It was blotted faintly by traces of red along the bottom edge of his ribs, near the left side of his body. He looked like a dead thing, sprawled back in a chair, alone and exhausted, his legs splayed apart, his pants faintly muddied around the ankles. He was barefoot.

In his fingers, he held a glass of straight rum the color of his eyes.

Yuuri’s lips rounded into an ‘O’ as he lifted his head, his eyes going big and round and wide. “Victor,” he breathed. “I need another drink, I think.” He wobbled to his feet, eyes flicking toward a bookshelf. He reached slowly for the open bottle of rum on the bar.

Yuuri twitched into a run.

Victor was faster. It was pure instinct, the rush, grabbing a shoulder and slamming a runner into the bar to stall them. Yuuri wheezed, and Victor almost let go, horrorstruck. He steeled himself, pinning Yuuri, doubled over, to the bar by his shoulder and neck, a knee between his legs to keep him from going anywhere. He crushed Yuuri down with the force of his own body, their breath rasping fast.

He could smell the liquor on Yuuri’s breath, the unsteady waver in how he had stood. He was drunk, he was hurt. The liquor in the cabinet wasn’t just for show. The bottle was uncapped beside them. There was fear in Yuuri’s eyes, like a cornered animal, as his neck craned around to look at Victor.

It clicked, so suddenly that Victor didn’t want to consider it. His eyes went wide. “This is what you meant when you said your family needed you.”

“What else would it be,” Yuuri hissed angrily. Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes. There was a hate so pure in his expression. Victor wavered. He’d never seen his doll so angry before. “I did what I had to do. You think I wanted to spend my life hiding from the law? But what the mafia says, goes. And once you're in, you don't get out.”

“So it was all a lie?” Victor breathed. He could feel his heart breaking. “So… you didn't want me. You were… just using me for information then-”

“No, never!” Yuuri cried, the hatred splintering for a brief moment.

“What?”

“Like I needed to use you to know what's going on in the precinct. I didn't want you because you were a officer, I… I loved you in spite of it. I knew I was playing with fire.” Yuuri blinked, and he shook himself, resolute. “Well. Go on then. Burn me.”

“You love me?” Victor said. It was like the wind had been knocked from his lungs. His grip loosened, and Yuuri turned slightly, clutching his side with a little gasp. He was still glaring, still furious.

“I did.” His voice cracked. “I still do.”

Victor silenced Yuuri with a kiss. Yuuri groaned into the embrace, half on the bar and half heavy in Victor’s arms. His breath was harsh and sour in Victor’s mouth, his fingers clutching close at Victor’s wrinkled uniform.

Yuuri moaned softly when Victor pulled his lips down, kissing down the line of his jaw to the spot on his neck he knew would make Yuuri keen. “You aren’t-” he gasped, and paused, swallowing hard enough to make his adam’s apple bob. “Am I under arrest?”

Victor laughed into Yuuri’s throat, then pressing a soft bite and dragging his tongue over it. His fingers curled possessively into the belt-loops in Yuuri’s trousers. “You’re definitely under arrest, Doll,” he breathed. “Why don’t you turn around and spread your legs for me so I can check for any weapons?”

Yuuri sputtered. Victor tightened his grip on the belt-loops, hoping the message was sent in the press of his lips to Yuuri’s bare collarbone, the long suck and nip at the skin, the little hum.

“Oh,” Yuuri breathed. “I’m… I might be too drunk for this.” Victor pressed Yuuri back into the bar, running his hands down Yuuri’s shoulders, along his bandaged spine. Victor bit and nipped and sucked at the skin, sliding his hands down from Yuuri’s hips to pat his pockets. A low whine slipped from Yuuri’s lips. His head fell back.

Victor grabbed a handful of Yuuri’s plentiful thighs, rolling the meat of them through his fingers, his grip rotating around to the front with each squeeze. His hand slid around to cup Yuuri between the legs.

Yuuri was half hard and growing more and more interested by the second. His head rolled, looking over his shoulder at Victor with low, fluttering eyes. He was flushed, beautiful, a vision even while drunk. Maybe especially while drunk.

“What happened here?” Victor asked, gently moving his hands up to touch the edges of the bandages.

Yuuri pushed his hand away. He turned around to face Victor and kiss his throat. “Not important. Put your hands back on my cock,” he ordered. He laced his arms around Victor’s neck and kissed up the line of Victor’s jaw.

Victor set his hands on Yuuri’s hips, not rising to the bait. “Does it hurt?” Victor asked. “Did I make it worse?”

“Victorrrr,” Yuuri groaned. “You can’t tease me and then ask me questions.”

“I thought you said you were too drunk,” Victor teased. He left a line of kisses up Yuuri’s collarbone. “Little lawbreaker.”

“If you loved me back, you’d fuck me,” Yuuri said, narrowing his eyes. They were unfocused and glittering, impossible to resist. His smile was drunken and bright and so familiar that Victor couldn't resist.

Victor tisked. “Now that’s playing dirty. I didn’t even bring lube.” How else could he shower Yuuri in every last bit of love Victor felt for him? He wanted to show Yuuri that feeling of flying he felt, of being free for once in his life, untethered but buoyed by Yuuri’s kisses, like Victor’s doubts didn’t matter so long as he had this man by his side.

Yuuri’s drunken laugh was so beautiful. Suddenly, a mischievous look crossed his face. “Behind the creme de menthe. Phichit hides a small container of the stuff for when he and Seung Gil are alone down here. He thinks I don’t know.”

Victor grinned. “Be right back,” he breathed.

“Hurry,” Yuuri said. Victor nearly tripped over his own feet scrambling around the bar, shifting bottles out of the way to find the creme de menthe.

Behind him, Yuuri leaned back over the bar. He grabbed the bottle of rum by the neck and tipped it back, taking a few very generous swallows. Victor plucked it from his fingers and took a long drink himself. It burned like fire going down. He could almost feel it sitting on his stomach, the familiar but long-forgotten kiss of liquor down his throat.

Victor returned victorious, and Yuuri giggled. His eyes were a little bleary, but oh, how they sparkled. Yuuri shimmied out of his pants, wincing in pain. His cute little ass was thick and round, sheer perfection, tilted up from how he laid his chest against the bar. Victor slid a hand down the back, parting the cheeks.

“Come oooon, Victor,” Yuuri said, wagging his hips. “Fuck me.”

Victor slicked his fingers with a smile. “A little bit of patience.” He circled the tight ring of muscle. Yuuri hissed pleasantly, tipping his hips back further. Yuuri was naked and gorgeous laid out against the bar, but the sight of the bloodied bandages still made Victor pause.

Yuuri let out a little protesting noise, and Victor slipped the first finger inside.  Yuuri made a little satisfied sound, his spine curling indolently. “Victor, do you have any idea how you look right now,” he breathed.

“How do I look?” Victor asked.

“So handsome,” Yuuri slurred. His breath pitched up slightly when Victor curled his finger inside. “You look so good in a uniform. Makes you look so dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Victor laughed. He pushed a second finger inside, listening to the pretty sounds Yuuri made. “Most people tell me the uniform makes me look safe.”

“Very scary,” Yuuri replied. “In a good way.”

“Only if you’ve been bad,” Victor said. He scissored his fingers apart, and Yuuri groaned and rocked his body back. “Have you been bad, my love? Do I need to cuff you to the bar?”

Yuuri moaned at that. “Is that a promise or a threat?”

“I’m sure we can work something out,” Victor replied.

Yuuri suddenly giggled, a beautiful, drunken sound, and Victor was gone, gone, gone on the music of it. “Are you offering a deal, Mr. Officer? You can use my body if you like. Fuck me good and hard. I really don’t want to go to prison.”

“I think that might work,” Victor replied, and Yuuri shivered. He glanced back, cheeks red, eyes glittering with joy. “As hard as I want?”

“I don’t need to walk anywhere tomorrow,” Yuuri replied. Victor felt his own groan escape his lips. Yuuri giggled once more. “Come on, Officer, gonna tease me all night or are you gonna put your cock in me already?”

Yuuri was perfect. He was so perfect and Victor was so, so, so in love with him, so gone on his smile. Victor unzipped the trousers of the police uniform, drawing his cock out. He hissed. His neglected cock ached, he was so hard. Victor finished stretching Yuuri out and braced Yuuri’s body with his own.

“Yessss,” Yuuri moaned. He rocked back, rubbing his pink little hole back against the head of Victor’s cock. Victor pushed inside. The tight warmth was amazing, slick and hot and so perfect around him that he gasped into the back of Yuuri’s neck. He braced his hands on Yuuri’s hips.

“Good?”

“So good,” Yuuri said. Victor rocked forward, pushing the rest of the way inside. Yuuri white-knuckled the edge of the bar. He waited till Yuuri’s grip loosened, and he drew back, pushing slowly back in. Yuuri moaned again, so full of cock, so beautiful.

“I love you,” Victor breathed. “Yuuri, I love you, I love you so much.” He panted as he started to build a rhythm, thrusting deep and watching Yuuri grunt and groan when Victor ground his cock deep. They rocked together, perfect and unhurried. “God you're just as perfect as the day we met.”

Yuuri clutched the bar, shivering. “Nngh, you were trying to get into the back room. So scared we were busted…”

Victor blinked, stilling his hips. “How could I have busted you? Were you doing something wrong when we were dancing that night? Wait, the dance hall doesn’t have a bar under it, too, does it?”

He vividly remembered the first time he’d seen Yuuri. This beautiful, confident man swirling out of a mass of bodies, taking Victor by the hand and leading him on a whirlwind night straight from Victor’s wildest dreams.

Seeing him again at the theater had been almost too good to be true.

“Dance hall?” Yuuri asked. He went still. “Oh god. I did it again, didn’t I?” He went limp on the bar, slamming his fist down and groaning. His body seized around Victor, and Victor groaned, clutching tighter to Yuuri’s hips. “I have… a problem. Sometimes when I drink, I get a little wild. Phichit thinks its funny, but I never remember what happens the next day.”

Victor thought back to that night. Yuuri hadn’t seemed drunk. But then, he seemed fairly sober now, and Yuuri had downed quite a bit while Victor had watched, never mind how much he had drunk before Victor had arrived.

Yuuri buried his face in his hands and groaned.

Victor laughed, unable to do anything more. His whole body shook with the force of it. Yuuri moaned beneath him “I guess this explains why it’s illegal, then, isn’t it?”

“Forget that,” Yuuri said, “ _move_.”

Victor clutched at Yuuri and did as commanded, drawing his hips back a bit and slamming home hand enough to leave Yuuri crying out. “Yes, ah yes! Victor,” he moaned. Victor bowed over him on the bar, getting enough leverage to fill Yuuri just right.

The room was heavy with the sound of their moans, breath harsh in and out. Yuuri’s hand jerked frantically over his own cock, the twitching of his body around Victor bringing him so close to release. He could feel himself closing in on release, and he ground his hips in hard, leaving Yuuri moaning long and luxuriously as he came himself.

For a long moment, Yuuri didn’t move. Victor pulled out, and he realized Yuuri’s face was scrunched, and he looked close to tears.

“I love you too,” Yuuri breathed. He jerked and gasped, hand flying to his side. “Ok, ow ow ow, let me get to the chair, ow,” Yuuri added, clutching in side in pain. Victor helped him over, despite Yuuri trying to do it by himself.

Victor trailed his fingers over the edge of the bandage. “What happened?” Yuuri sagged against the edge. The bandage was more red than before. “Oh god, Yuuri, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“No, I wanted it,” Yuuri said, inhaling sharply through his teeth. “Just… give me a second. And the bottle of rum back. Then… let's talk.”

* * *

 

Yuri wasn’t stupid. He suspected something was wrong the moment Victor showed up at the precinct with the biggest grin Yuri had ever seen and a bag to clean out his desk.

“You can’t resign!” Yakov bellowed. “If you quit now you can never come back. We’re so close to catching those bootleggers!”

“I’m sorry, Yakov,” Victor said solemnly, emptying his drawers. He was smiling too widely to even bother to be ashamed of himself. “I have my future to consider.”

“Exactly, you idiot,” Yuri hissed, drawing up to Victor. He jabbed a finger at the idiot who was walking away. “How can you leave when there’s so much to do?”

Victor just smiled. “Goodbye, Yurio!”

He walked out the door without a second look.

Yuri blinked at the doorway a few times. He raced out, but Victor was already driving away. Yuri seethed. Fucking criminal Katsuki was behind this, wasn’t he?

Yuri sprinted out the door, ignoring Otabek calling after him. It was a long run to the theater, and Yuri was winded by the end of it, panting outside the doors to the theater. In daylight, the theater was empty, with no shows planned for another few hours. No better time than now.

Yuri burst inside, looking around quickly for anyone who might try and stop him. He saw no one, not even the tall woman with bleach-blond hair and an indecently short skirt. It was completely empty. Yuri crept toward where he knew the secret door was hidden. He felt around for the secret mechanism, and found it quite by accident when he slammed his fist into the wall. The door popped open in its hinges, the flawless seam finally revealed.

Yuri yanked the door open, looking back the way he’d come. The stairs were empty where they led up, probably to the apartment above. There was the sound of instruments coming from the theater, as of someone practicing. Yuri slipped down the stairs with his eyes narrowed in determination.

At the base of the stairs, a curtain was hung. He parted it slowly, listening closely. He didn’t hear any voices. He slowly peered through.

His jaw dropped. A sea of bottles faced him on the distant wall, filling the once empty bar. He was right. He was fucking right all along and it had simply been hidden. Yuri wanted to scream, he wanted to drag the police in here.

He froze.

Victor was retiring early. Victor was dating Yuuri. He saw red. He ran up the stairs, throwing the secret door wide and busting into the theater. He stopped dead. Victor and Yuuri were waltzing onstage, not even following the music. Yuuri's movements were oddly stilted, as though favoring one side. Victor spun Yuuri, and Yuuri tipped Victor back. Despite the strange hesitation, Yuuri was… actually very talented, Yuri had to admit. 

Yuri sputtered. “Victor!” he screamed. The band jarred to a halt and Yuuri looked over at him. “Never thought you’d go crooked,” he spat.

Yuuri’s eyes went wide beside him. Victor stepped in front of him, as though trying to shield him. It was all Yuri needed to see. Yuuri pushed past Victor with a low glare. His expression was cold, positively frigid compared to the warm smile he’d worn when he’d gazed at Victor while dancing.

“So you know,” Yuuri said.

“What are you going to do?” Yuri asked. “You know I won’t let you do this.”

“So scared of becoming your dad, aren’t you, Yurio?” Victor asked. “You know it’s not that easy. How will you get proof?”

“I saw it myself,” Yuri spat. “I won’t be like him. And I _definitely_ won’t be like you.”

Victor smirked. He slid up beside Yuuri, looping his arm around that damned criminal’s waist. That cocky bastard was so smug up there, it made Yuri want to scream. “Your evidence is inadmissible, but even if Yakov takes it, it’s your word against mine.”

“You’re not an officer anymore.”

“You aren’t an officer yourself,” Yuuri said. “And if we can’t hide the liquor in time, we’ll run. And then you’ll have the whole mafia breathing down your neck, eager for a little revenge. It’s that simple, Yurio. You can’t win this. So let it go.”

Yuri hissed, glowering, backing up slowly as he looked between the two and whipped his head toward the musicians beside them onstage. “You’re dead either way, Nikiforov, as long as you’re hiding with that damned rumrunner.”

Victor smiled. “That’s where you’re wrong, Yurio. I’ve never felt more alive.”

Yuri stormed out of the theater and screamed. He ran, aimless and directionless, not going to anywhere in particular. He found himself lost on crowded streets, and he couldn’t stop, even when air burned in his lungs with every breath and he found himself with a stitch in his side.

He spun off, backing himself into an alley. Hot tears slipped down his cheeks. He slammed his fist into a brick wall again and again.

Victor Nikiforov was dead. He was a liar, a crook, a criminal. Just like Katsuki. Just like Yuri’s dad. And now Nikiforov was dead, or as good as. Yuri whipped his eyes away, and he ran back to the police station. Even if he couldn’t tell Yakov, even if the evidence didn’t count, Yuri would find a way. He’d be an officer, and he’d find Victor, and he’d find Yuuri, and he’d arrest them and every last member of their merry little band.

They’d rot in prison forever, just like they deserved.

* * *

 

“So he just ran away?” Mila asked. She leaned forward on the bar. Sara nudged Mila with her elbow, smiling at some joke between the two of them. Mila grinned back.

Phichit cleaned the glass thoughtfully. “Yuuri said that Victor doesn’t think he’ll rat. He’ll want to catch them himself. Which at least buys us two more years before he’s taken on the force. Maybe he’ll forget in that time.”

“Kids are crazy,” Sara agreed. “How long could he really hold a grudge?”

“A loooong time,” Mila said. “I knew kids like him, growing up. They get something stuck in their heads, it never leaves ‘em. I bet half the booze in this bar he’ll be gunning for us the second he gets the badge in his hand. Drink, Sara?” she offered.

Sara shook her head. “No thanks, I want to keep a clear head my first time.”

“You’ll do _great_ , Sara,” Mila gushed. “Your voice is beautiful. We’re gonna knock ‘em dead.”

“I just hope Michele doesn’t do anything stupid,” Sara said, shaking her head.

Phichit smiled across the bar. “Don’t you worry about a thing. He tries anything, we’ll shut him down. It’s your night to shine. The band will be warming up in a few hours, so if you want to change, now’s your chance.”

Mila nodded. “We were going to run back to the restaurant real fast. Sara wants her lucky earrings. See you after the show, Phichit!”

“Bye!” Phichit said, waving as they headed out. “And good luck, Sara!”

“Thanks!” she replied. The curtain fell closed. Phichit cleaned off the tables and straightened things up for tonight. It would be a busy one, he expected.

Minami was the first to arrive, stars shining in his eyes. Phichit had never seen such an exuberant soul as him, eternally on the cusp of hyperventilating from the sheer thrill of existence. “Come on,” he wheedled. “One drink. No one else needs to know.”

“Yuuri said no one under 18,” Phichit said. “You don’t want to disappoint Yuuri, do you?”

Minami huffed and crossed his arms. The boy’s idolization of Yuuri was something astounding and effective. Phichit almost felt bad using it for evil. Almost.

“Who’s disappointing Yuuri?” Yuuri asked as he stepped through the door. Minami whirled. Immediately, his shoulders hunched and the light seemed to fade slightly.

Victor was close at Yuuri’s side. The two were practically joined at the hip, and honestly, Phichit was happy. He'd had his doubts before, certainly, but they were fading. Yuuri was happy, Victor seemed pretty damned smitten, and the man had basically quit his job even when Yuuri swore it wasn’t necessary. He claimed he had other ideas about what to do with his time, among other things. 

“You’ve already got a double agent,” Victor had said with a shrug. “Not sure who it is, but you don’t need me there.” Phichit kind of liked the idea of having their own mole in the system. Guang Hong got his information from somewhere inside. While he was usually good about passing things on, Phichit wanted that immediacy.

Oh well. At least the two were happy.

“Everything alright, there, Minami?” Phichit asked, leaning across the bar.

Minami shook his head. “Fine,” he said tersely. He steeled himself before turning and taking to his feet. He stomped right up to Victor. “Don’t you dare hurt Yuuri or anyone else here, you got it? If someone here gets arrested, and it’s your fault, I’m asking Michele for his tommy gun-”

Phichit clapped a hand over Minami’s mouth and laughed, starting to drag the boy back behind the bar. Yuuri looked embarrassed.

But instead of looking amused, or confused, Victor looked solemn. He placed a hand over his chest. “I swear to you, I’ll do everything in my power to help protect Yuuri and everyone else in this theater. And if I fail, there’s no one I would want to hold me accountable for my failure than someone near and dear to Yuuri’s heart.”

“Thank you,” Minami said, shaking Phichit off. Yuuri was sputtering.

“Victor, it's fine-”

Victor shook his head. “No, you protect your own. And as long as you’ll have me, I'll do my part,” he said, taking Yuuri’s hand in his. Yuuri smiled, and they did that mushy couple look.

Phichit was almost ready to break it up when suddenly, Minami smiled, all that old enthusiasm back. “Well, I’ll leave you guys then!”

“Warming up early?” Yuuri asked.

Minami nodded and grinned. “See you later! Want me to send Seung Gil down here?”

Phichit nodded. “Please, that would be great.”

Minami saluted. “Alright, can do!” He bounced upstairs. Phichit leaned against the bar and sighed.

“Long day?”

“Long week, we can't keep things stocked and the number of customers keeps going up lately.”

“They must really want alcohol,” Yuuri mused.

Phichit rose to his feet. That reminded him, he’d found the perfect thing for Victor. Phichit measured out the cranberry juice and vodka, listening with half an ear as Victor sputtered, “Yuuri, they might come and drink, but many of them are here for you.”

“Yeah, I know. The theater is a great cover for a speakeasy,” Yuuri said, and Phichit could only shake his head, smiling. He slid the drink toward Victor.

“You’re not going to win this one," Phichit said. Victor glanced at the drink in surprise. “I’ve been telling him he’s the biggest draw we’ve got, but he doesn’t believe me.”

“Don’t say it like that, like I don’t think I can’t do it. But they come for the music, and they come for the drinks. Saying they’re just coming to watch me dance is downright ridiculous.”

“And probably true,” Phichit added, starting on Yuuri’s drink of choice, a French 75 with a heavy dose of champagne and gin, fresh and cold. Yuuri protested.

Phichit could hear footsteps coming down, so he hushed Yuuri with a laugh. “We’ll go at this all day, you stubborn ass. Have a drink. Victor, what do you think?”

“I think you’re trying to tell me something,” Victor said, eyeing the bottle of vodka still sitting out. But he took a long drink, nonetheless, smacking his lips in satisfaction. “But it’s good.”

“Thanks,” Yuuri said when Phichit passed him his. Phichit started in on a highball, generous with the ginger ale and a bit shy with the whiskey, just like how Seung Gil liked it best. If Phichit felt like some mischief, he’d add a bit more, but with the show tonight, it might be best to keep Seung Gil tending towards sobriety. Seung Gil was quite the flirty drunk. Normally a guarantee for a good time, but Phichit didn’t want to mess with tomorrow’s fallout when some show-goer’s wife came storming in spitting mad, asking about the hickeys on her husband’s neck. Not that situations like _that_ happened. Often.

Well, not every night.

Phichit sipped a glass of sherry he’d set aside. The curtains parted and Seung Gil arrived, as sullen as always, lips set in to a hard, thin line. He dropped into his usual seat, taking the highball without comment.

Victor and Yuuri made small talk for a little while longer, but eventually, Yuuri stood, claiming he needed to walk off the last of the buzz before getting ready, and Victor hopped to his feet like an overeager puppy to follow him.

“See you, Phichit!” Yuuri said.

“Have a nice night!” Victor added.

“Bye guys,” Phichit said, waving. He watched them leave with a contented smile, leaning against the bar. “So. What do you want?” he asked with a little grin.

“Wanted them to leave,” Seung Gil said with a shrug.

Phichit hopped up onto the bar, spinning around so his legs hung off the side beside Seung Gil. “Is that so?” he asked. “Didn’t want anything else?” The corner of Seung Gil’s lip twitched. “That was a smile!” Phichit announced loudly. “I saw it! That was a smile!” Seung Gil’s expression fractured a little more, the corners pulling up slightly higher. Phichit slid onto his lap, curling his arms around his neck with a little smile.

Seung Gil rested his hands on Phichit’s thighs. Phichit dipped his head, and their lips met, the kiss deepening quickly. “Only for you, Noni,” Seung Gil said.

“I don’t know, didn’t you smile at that gentleman two weeks ago when he said you kissed well?” Phichit asked.

Seung Gil scowled. “I don’t have to put up with this.”

“But you dooo,” Phichit teased, and pulled Seung Gil back into a kiss. “And I know why.”

“Because I’m better than that old mafioso?” Seung Gil asked, smug. He wrapped his hands more firmly around Phichit’s waist.

“Are you?” Phichit teased. He trailed his fingers up Seung Gil’s shirt, teasing along the collar. “Why don’t you prove it, then?”

Seung Gil snaked his arms around Phichit, hauling him back up onto the bar. Phichit reached back for the lube, closing his fingers around it and drawing it up with a little grin. “I think I will- wait, is there… less?” Seung Gil said, taking it from Phichit’s fingers.

Phichit squinted at it. The bottle was emptier than they’d left it. “But I could have sworn-” Phichit started, before breaking off. “That little… Yuuri!” Phichit hollered. “Yuuri I know it was you! Buy your own damn lube!”

They didn’t get an answer. Phichit rolled his eyes with a soft laugh.

“We’ve got enough. I’ll make Victor replace it,” Seung Gil said, waving the bottle.

Phichit silenced him with kisses. “Sounds like a plan, now let’s get on with this,” he said, dragging Seung Gil down onto him, making love on the bar to the sound of the band practicing above. 

* * *

 JJ laughed as he counted another sheaf of money.

“Good mood, JJ?” Isabella asked, leaning against him with a little smile.

JJ hummed, pleased. “Prohibition was the best thing to ever happen to business, I swear. I hope it never ends.”

“So the shipment arrived intact, I take it?” she asked. She curled beside him on the couch, making herself a little more comfortable. “That’s good to hear. I know you were worried.”

“Worried? I never worry!” JJ said. “Sure, Big Boss Cialdini might hate me, but that won’t stop JJ style!” He raised a glass, and he laughed. Isabella smiled and raised her own. Life was good.

* * *

 The sky was dark, the precinct sleepy and slow. Even Yakov had gone home, if only to get himself a few hours in a bed for the first time in weeks. They’d been pressing Chris for weeks, trying to eke whatever info they could. When dawn broke, they’d redouble their efforts once more.

Chris leaned back in the cell, whistling softly.

It was the witching hour. Always an exciting time.

There was a soft shuffling outside as one of the guards slumped against the wall. Another fell to the floor. A shadow brushed into the room, a finger light on their pulses.

“It's time?” Chris said.

The shadow approached, keys jingling lightly. “It's time,” it confirmed, stepping further into the light. Leo placed the key in the lock and turned it. Chris stood and stretched languidly.

“Good, I was starting to think I'd never get to walk free,” he said. “Did you clean the locker out?”

“All the important things,” Leo confirmed, tossing him a suitcase. “Karpisek is out front with the car. This is as far as I can get you. Good luck.”

Chris saluted with two fingers. “The same to you,” he said. “Good luck, old friend.”

* * *

Music played, sweet and slow, over the phonograph, crackling in a comforting, familiar kind of way. They danced as one. They were content to hold one another in each other’s arms, swaying to the soft jazz.

Passports were sprawled across the hotel bedside table beside Victor’s journal. Stamps from around the world marked the pages, months of travel showing in a small little book. 

The journal nearby was heavily notated. Early pages were full of case notes. Later they switched to praises of Yuuri, as well as plot points for a crime novel Victor was planning, as well as whatever else caught his fancy.

The last entry was penned in a scrawling sprawl, crossed out and marked up and rewritten until satisfied.

_Those sultry eyes were the same color as the rum he smuggled, and his kiss was a burning hit of triple x moonshine. That femme fatale had all the boys and girls lining up for a taste of the good stuff, and I wasn't just talking about the way his body moved. I was going to pin him down for his crimes one day, that much I thought._

_But damn if that Yuuri Katsuki wasn't the finest piece of ass this side of Detroit. And he had me under his spell, the same way he had just about everybody else._


End file.
